In the sweltering coils of hot city
tunnels-where rats and men eat
what is thrown at them-a certain one man that carries no disguise
labels his junk and has red piercing
eyes;
We fat in our own stench and keep
our own lines, never too near or he
cuts off your thighs-then snaps with
a twist of his wrist and your gone-
suppose hell has a heaven? Thats
where we belong;
Fair is not fairness if no fight you
give, but if strength be the lacking
then just call on him-and this man
who has junk in a cart with black
wheels-better not run or he bites
at your heels;
Stand straight and stare narrowly
all else aside, when he lays his
right hand on your shoulder with
pride-then ask him "the favor"
and if he gives you your due-
All of your dreams come true.
