Streeta

Dope baggies on the sidewalk of cement, dressed the way players do observing pimps, fading gang signs of graffiti on store front walls, fleeing cars nothing about this is new, sisters flashing their asses, for cash, down Madison Ave, with a glance at time they vanish, with a stranger who is mannish, sometimes I don't see how they manage, these eyes of mine are of a streeta who prowled these grounds, with no objections of what's going on and around, so no hypocrisy can be found, but when I think that nothing changed there's no future in this no better days, but never the less I am not amazed, fazed to see this is the legacy that was once me, and with stereotypes and scorn falls on my people tree,