fitty 7

in the town where I was born kids
don’t respect their elders – they
need remembrance’s little pills
to jolt their heads back into place
write scripts on their sleeves,
rhymes to rock that gentle night away
I had it once, but not again
got to drink back to the end of skulls
(bricks that fall
in my line of sight
the credits roll my bank account
hooded monks that softly claw electric funds