by:
Willie Perdomo
123rd Street
goes a little
something like
this:
Automatic bullets bounce
off stoop steps
It's about time to pay
all my debts
Church bells bong for
for drunken mourners
Baby men growing on
all the corners
Money that
ain't mine
Sun that
don't shine
Trees that
don't grow
Wind that
won't blow
Drug posses
ready to rumble
Ceilings starting
to crumble
Abuelas close
eyes and pray
While they watch
the children play
Not much I
can say
Except day turns
to night
And I can't tell what's
wrong from what's right
on 123rd Street
Orchestra
