Life behind the walls of a city.
|Shiny new moon kept up night's starry essence over Perfume Paris
within cobalt blue room where mere vanity mirror me.
Wall of nursery rhymes at bed are read without dread even if nanny can be bit of a ogre.
Tired of "asking", she stopped answering our yell as we darlings cry to sleep.
I'm born on praise not delivered by mama whose all thumbs these days,
twiddling vodka 5th while wondering whose my daddy.
Made into a woman I am by your manly way,
making me like you, I say, but pain never left me.
I will have rain on my face someday with smile mingling tear that hushes your mouth
when something should be said.
Feet skips a beat jumping sidewalk of houses having crack.
Poppa says he tired of "fixing" up all those broken, powdery lead fences, poppy red.
Yesterday the sun laid low, shadowing goings on at dead end streets ending in only one way.
Like a little boy being a man turned Shazam, he took it on the chin, grappling left hook
which sent him flying to gangsta's right hand man grinning before sucker punch creeping up on "em".
My radio flyer sped 40 going north pass eye having vacancy, flashing rage, oh mama!
Poppa puts up with sass when drying out on wet "n" dry fire escape balcony grille on his ass.
He could hardly look up to see knotted sneakers hanging from telephone line.
At least he did not kiss the pavement with backward arms tackling men in blue.
Childhood end, going with the flow of things, hustling crappy hearts on cue in gaming pool
on the corner side of street draining teen pockets.
Broom pushers pause before cello chin and aging violin serenading open air café with fine dining
of day old cheesy pizza which was a killer, a burning heartache to some.
Ruby-throated cough grew stronger, ending poppa's Amore song.
Chords struck midnight at a very enchanting parking place till candelabrum spark another lover' quarrel in the dark.
Time pauses for life behind the walls of the city.