by Zamounde Allie

To the tribes called gangs
Redirect that which you bang
Change the song that too 
many of our momma's have sung
from the might of wronged ones
Too many tears have enslaved 
mentalities reared and so many 
of us were already hung


I walk these streets where stone-cold tools
causes blood-stained misery
The path I walk was paved with the bones 
of my brotha's and sista's who did not make it home.
The story goes like this:

I floated into a cave
awoke on the other side of ultimate doom
offered a deal I couldn’t refuse
jaws dropped a little too soon
revived by electrical devices
laid up in a bed with tubes
I.V.’s in my wrist
if I could move I’d cut ‘em
along with the memories that swam the ocean of my brain
I craved to squeeze the trigger day to day
like a dope-fiend lookin’ for a vein
Glock, glocks!
Got me goin’ insane
I grew up nigga
blood, gut, and Gory Island
mixed with love
ingredients of a true foot-soldier
Too much, too little, too late
to ever cry
hearts too cold
I say head's too swollen
from home-made potions
commercial notions
that we could
truly be great in this country
The steel’s pointin’ the wrong direction

If G’s were to form political parties
the streets would truly be ours
“ The ballad or the bullet ”
Followed orders by highly elected officials
would not be superficial
the votin’ booth’s would not tolerate unnecessary issues
no more mothers in search of eye draining tissues
from the bottom up
no undercover troops
cash-crops wouldn't flow like soup
If not for the crackers that soak up the juice
Hoods would return to neighborhoods
with a BP
Black Panther Party stationed on all corners
Schools would build up the inner-nation
and destroy once and for all these inner-plantations for mourners
but the guns are pointin’ in the wrong direction still
 our foot-soldiers stomp out each others crews
and for unforgivin’ reasons we’re slew
while behind closed doors Congressmen,
congressmen choose
to leave us out of the main stew
and send in their birds to guard the ghetto nest
to keep the peckin’ order in check
gobblin’ us up like pac-man
Stuck in a tunnel with no vision
forced to make hard decisions
with only our piece for unfinished business
Too long sittin’ around wishin’ that we could get out
while we’re livin’ in da’screet
movin’ day ta' day like sheep in wolves clothin’
bitin’ the hands that feeds us crumbs
keepin’ us cracked in bombed concrete
jungles to be recruited for Sam, the slam
or swatted like flies
With steel!
 I'd cut all these strings attached
especially to my hands
and gather up a great army of men
to attack this capital from within ‘ism
and start smokin' Congressmen
let the street delegation began
to incarcerate, denigrate, magistrate
the oppressors of the Red, Black, and Yellow majority whip
let them walk these streets where stone-cold tools
causes blood-stained misery 
maybe then
still !

Still by Zamounde Allie

© Copyright 1997. 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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