Post by Idan Keys on Feb 5, 2013 8:04:55 GMT -5
(Probably posted before in The Wall, but it deserves a reports for Black History Month)
BY ALFRED T. CRAWFORD
There’s been a warrant for my son since his day of birth
By an angry society that deferred his worth.
Be it drugs, sex, or biased laws
A lion can’t rule if you shackle his paws!
And though I tried my best to raise him right,
It was the world outside that clouded his sight.
See, he was fighting a battle he could not win:
To transcend the end of most black men...
Well, my wife found a stem one day while washing his clothes
“It ain’t mine” he said while rubbing his nose.
So I check his room
I kind of wrecked the place:
I searched every square inch of his hip-hop space.
Then my eye caught the glint of a tapped up nine,
And you can just imagine what was going through my mind when
My son runs in and he sees me spying,
His face is all bloodied and still wet from crying.
“Son!” I said.
“Where did you get this from?!”
“Dad I can’t talk now, I gotta’ run”
“Slow down,” I begged, “let’s talk this out;
Tell me what’s wrong and what this gun is about.”
But junior got impatient and snatched the heat,
He barreled down the stairs and headed up the street.
Now I’m not as fast but I kept him in sight
He ran three blocks down, then he made a right.
I couldn’t just stop and let the boy go,
Something was wrong and I needed to know.
So when I rounded the corner,
Still gasping for air,
My son stood facing some guy in a chair.
Obscenities, egos and attitudes clashed:
My son raised his weapon and the dude dropped his glass.
Now, my son’s a big guy but this cat was bigger.
He lunged from the chair so my son pulled the trigger.
The explosion was deep like thunder at noon
And the whole block hustled beneath the boom.
The shot caught the guy high on the chest and where he fell
Was where he rest.
Then, just as my son lowered his gun
From behind the house came another one:
“YOU SHOT MY MAN!”
he screamed to my seed.
And before I could react the bullet was freed.
I watched my son’s body jerk
Then fall;
And the root of my soul caught the pain of it all.
Then, without a thought or a brief interlude
I picked up my son’s gun and I shot at the dude.
I shot again and again until I knew he was dead,
When every last shell was pumped in his head.
Then I went to my son who was silent and cold,
The prince of my throne who was made in my mold.
“I’m sorry my son.” Was all I could speak,
As I watched his blood stain the street.
It’s been ten long years since that cold hard day,
When those mean, ugly streets took my son away.
As for my wife…well, she’s coming around,
She’s just getting over a nervous break down.
So it’s too all you Apollo brothers
Is to whom this poem should speak,
Please Black Man, whatever you do,
Don’t let your son be another stain on the street…
BY ALFRED T. CRAWFORD
There’s been a warrant for my son since his day of birth
By an angry society that deferred his worth.
Be it drugs, sex, or biased laws
A lion can’t rule if you shackle his paws!
And though I tried my best to raise him right,
It was the world outside that clouded his sight.
See, he was fighting a battle he could not win:
To transcend the end of most black men...
Well, my wife found a stem one day while washing his clothes
“It ain’t mine” he said while rubbing his nose.
So I check his room
I kind of wrecked the place:
I searched every square inch of his hip-hop space.
Then my eye caught the glint of a tapped up nine,
And you can just imagine what was going through my mind when
My son runs in and he sees me spying,
His face is all bloodied and still wet from crying.
“Son!” I said.
“Where did you get this from?!”
“Dad I can’t talk now, I gotta’ run”
“Slow down,” I begged, “let’s talk this out;
Tell me what’s wrong and what this gun is about.”
But junior got impatient and snatched the heat,
He barreled down the stairs and headed up the street.
Now I’m not as fast but I kept him in sight
He ran three blocks down, then he made a right.
I couldn’t just stop and let the boy go,
Something was wrong and I needed to know.
So when I rounded the corner,
Still gasping for air,
My son stood facing some guy in a chair.
Obscenities, egos and attitudes clashed:
My son raised his weapon and the dude dropped his glass.
Now, my son’s a big guy but this cat was bigger.
He lunged from the chair so my son pulled the trigger.
The explosion was deep like thunder at noon
And the whole block hustled beneath the boom.
The shot caught the guy high on the chest and where he fell
Was where he rest.
Then, just as my son lowered his gun
From behind the house came another one:
“YOU SHOT MY MAN!”
he screamed to my seed.
And before I could react the bullet was freed.
I watched my son’s body jerk
Then fall;
And the root of my soul caught the pain of it all.
Then, without a thought or a brief interlude
I picked up my son’s gun and I shot at the dude.
I shot again and again until I knew he was dead,
When every last shell was pumped in his head.
Then I went to my son who was silent and cold,
The prince of my throne who was made in my mold.
“I’m sorry my son.” Was all I could speak,
As I watched his blood stain the street.
It’s been ten long years since that cold hard day,
When those mean, ugly streets took my son away.
As for my wife…well, she’s coming around,
She’s just getting over a nervous break down.
So it’s too all you Apollo brothers
Is to whom this poem should speak,
Please Black Man, whatever you do,
Don’t let your son be another stain on the street…
