Diggin In The Scene With A Gangsta Lean. Poem by kyle turner

This rolex hasn’t worked
since I cut it from that lawyer’s hand,
but it’s not about time;
it’s about the glimmering ice.
This squirrel and I got this bench on lock
and straight kick it around my broken clock
with our glocks cocked,
waiting for the opportunity to stretch out.
Feasting on week old macaroni
and sandwich crusts;
elitist in every sense of the word.
Political titans,
with body guards and limousines;
woman pay us to weed these gardens.
What you know about that?

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