Crips and Bloods, robbers and killers.
Crips and Bloods, murders and stealers.
Crips and Bloods, those psychotic devices locked to entangle metal
and those ridges perfectly fit in hand with your suicidal addictions.
Crips and Bloods, the cocaine Smith-back bodily sniffers
and those popping pills non-subscriptions’.
Crips and Bloods, incarcerated to extinguished people of their decisions;
yet fathomed to persuade the crusaders of their sicken blue color sins.
Crips and Bloods, you call the devil's seven deadly sin kin,
those hippies and rolling stoners, the seven princes of hell within.
Crips and Bloods, y'all Cali boys straight from Canton and
y'all wanna be boys trying to be men who can't act for nothing.
You humpty low rider hydraulic drivers
and your speedy drag racing fucking car tires slicers.
Cop killers and neck slashing throat juggler endorsers.
You thirsty inevitable jewelers, with your criminal minds
of prospection of all of your impression.
Yet you must have thought that you found the loopholes in our United State justice,
reinventing new instruction for the thugs’ manual book of confessions
Crips and Bloods, you leave daughters and
sons fatherless with mother tapping to the needle;
steeping in fluids as those creepy and crawlers
climb up into their feathered torn battered mattresses.
Posing those arthritis incapable motor-skills that he often signs with.
With those anti-social coffins that you paint the streets with,
and those drive-by galleries that you suddenly miss.
Slinging drugs as they enforce music in a raised fist,
they chung 40s as they lyrically reminisce.
Crips and Bloods, a slang word they use so often "yated."
Crossword puzzles with the missed spelled words,
with tears under their eyes representing lost ones;
yet their suppose to be tuff and not cry.
Jungles of grave stones with undated signs or
broken homes with shattered tombstones representing "rage."
Scriptures of paragraphs written on their inner backside
or their inter introspection tights that don't divided.
Those Crips and Bloods, their red and blue.
They trigger those gang signs, as they shoot at you.
In despicable me, they smoke and chew.
Raising their pieces as they look down their barrels to aim,
yet they always seem to miss.
Red and blue we hope there almost like flowers,
but their like red Porsches shaped as bullets and
blue handicap signs framed as crosses in the form of a coffin.
Crips and Bloods, you kill your brothers.
Crips and Bloods, you scare your mothers.
Crips and Bloods, you smother the screams of the raped daughters.
Crips and Bloods, you take our sons at young ages to form into your soldiers.
Crips and Bloods, is it really all worth what you talk of.
I speck in the ways that no one else will hear,
because I am silent among the boys who call themselves men.
Wrapped in Disguises that I don't recognize as clothes.
Degrading yourselves less than what you are worth.
I tug at the sheet as it enslaves my sweat,
once a Wiseman said (MLK) "I had a dream" and it wasn't this.
Not to kill my brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers;
not to recreate Kane and Able, a story or
truth left with so many questions and no one to answer.