In the projects there is very little to call elements,
The figures cry answers for the eyes to beat,
A tribe of gypsy queens in exodus of doom,
A porch of life to repeat,
Laughter shifted in any wind,
I C Scratches of her sole,
Launching disguise of sin,
Admissions crave the hole,
These walls pulsate the curfew hanging,
Nimrods that built together,
The respect of titles still remaining,
Some past the Ides of weather.