Return to the old days
That’s what I think I’ll call it,
Engage some teenage taggers
give them a wall to scrawl it.
Taggers of this age
Are all about boasting,
Regarding the gang
And the neighborhood they are hosting.
Back in my day
It was all about girls and cars,
And gazing at the stars.
Now, it’s the fake bravado
Little gangsters with their posse,
Imagining their own drug cartels
Driving Mercedes, so glossy,
In that boombox on wheels
Singing about murder and their bitch,
How I wish I could shoot lightning bolts
And blast them into a ditch.
If I ever win the Powerball
I am going to invent,
A boombox destroyer
Money well spent,
If you play your crappy boombox
On my street or neighborhood,
I can microwave your power pack
I’ll get a plaque for doing good.