My old poetry haunts are gone
There’s no where for me to read in the South Bay
Even la moves on
What is there for a punk?
If I can’t drink wine and spout my shit
Who the hell am I supposed to stamp my feet?
Fuck it I say
And I’ll do it in the street
And people wonder why the rangers make their ragged
Let night tagging beat
On tired tired
It’s cause they got no where to go
They make their music
They shout their souls
They write their poetry on concrete.