Shaken, not slurred,
Verbal eating incurred;
Pride masked as honor
Calls a meeting adjured
Threats are heard
Protests averred
Someone’s a goner
The minute they shoot out the bird
“Cause the weapons are there
Disguised like a spare
Part by some stubborn guys
Who’d as soon fight with hands bared
If provoked on a dare
Or led on to care
By the bulk and the size
Of the insult that drives them impaired
Run out on the team
And a dead man you’ll seem
Like the token victim you’ll leave
Behind as custom deems
Then smoke up pot steam
In a funky denial dream
That the gangs all weave
As they play with their hot whipped creams . . . On a Sunday