Little King of Sorrows
Riding around in your Chevy,
Aint that pistol gettin heavy?
Beads of sweat run down your face,
coming up, another murder case.
Goin down one more block.
Lookin down at your glock.
Rollin down passanger window.
Pull the trigger. Another widow.
Leaving the scene at top speed.
All gangs are is guns and weed.
Month of june you became a member.
Killed 4 people by september.
'Pull it over' the policemen shout.
You made the team. But now want out.
Your brother says, ' Won't go out like this'
'Let me out' you yell and hiss.
You tuck and roll to side of the ridge.
And watch his car go off the bridge.
The cops say' You killed that guy outside the bar'
They slam your face against the car.
Few months later you enter court,
for all those lives you ended short.
What a waste and what a shame.
You chose that life. Noone else to blame.
The sentence echoes in your ears.
You try so hard to hold back tears.
The judgement of your greatest fears.
Sit and rot for 100 years.
(summer of 98) 17yrs old.
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Comments about this poem (Driveby by Little King of Sorrows )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(23 November 1920 - 20 April 1970)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(June 7, 1943)
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