For The Pickin

by Zamounde the Footstepper

We search for the crumbs on the table
Because life is too big of a fable
With too many bakery's servin' the same thang
Organized high post gangs
Evil sweets they slang
The frustrated retaliate and bang
Puff-puff pass dreams
The hurt and confused sang
"Help me Lord" in silent screams
Knees bent on the floor
Stretchin' unused vocal chords
Dodgin' mental-physical bullet destinations
Perched at the scene of the closed door
Waitin' for the door's squeakin'
Some be for keys seekin'
Or beg for entrance like zombies in a trance
Cussin' about what needs
Can't be forgotten with weed
Or books they read
Lost like a seed in a concrete crack
Floating in dirty water
Smellin' like the slaughter
Of our sons and daughters
Starvin' next to fertile soil
Would you sell us out for a slice?
The tempers continue to boil
Is it better to think twice?
Or scrounge like mice
Upon the places of evil men
To say the least, "sin"
Thinkin' if you had enough crumbs to win
You'd be in like Flynn
Popular like Schywinn use to be
Spinnin' on your own rotation
Messin' up the regular gravitation
As they laugh at the everyday faces
In all the ugly places set up like a maze
With rats them protectin' the cheese
There's only room for those who want to be
A crumb snatcher!

For The Pickin by Zamounde the Footstepper

© Copyright 1998. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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