The ghetto poet
Needs a cigarette
His bottle
Running dry
The cops are out
In force today
Someone
Will surely die.
The pick pocket
Glides into an alley
In shadows
To blend away
The prostitute
With a heart of gold
Pays the beggar
To go away.
The young girl pines
For her young love
Given ten years
For robbing a store
To buy a ring
To give to her
These streets are dirty
Thats for sure.