I remember how we use to walk, down this old torn street

Tipping our hats to the “Passer-bys” and all the ladies we would meet.

 

Our Sunday event down the Avenue walks;

Hands in our pockets having our “Man to Man” talks.

 

It was our favorite place for us, to deflate our fuse

Our day of connecting;

Debating our different views.

 

Buying our favorite eat, a small cost of fifteen cents;

An cold iced drink of lemonade-aid, sitting on our favorite bench.
 

Swapping stories of our “Remember when”

A time recalled as we laughed back then.

 

I miss you little brother;

You’ve been gone a good long time;

but, I’m so glad you cannot see;

These wicked streets of crime.

No more walking the streets in our Sunday best

Villians use our lives to pass an uncivil test.
 

Remember those beautiful bricks we use to walk?

Well they no longer pave our lovely streets;

Trash is the new collage;

And drugs are the new treats.

 

Remember the old bench where we sat to eat and drink?

Our place where we fused our thoughts?

Our place where we could stop and think.

Is now wood that smells and rots.

 

Sleep well now little Brother;

Oh how you would think that the war you fought hard, in vain;

The place you had vowed and died to protect;

Is now a place of violent domain.

 

I am old now little brother;

Together soon, you’ll see;

And we will walk through streets paved of gold.

With our hands in our pockets;

Tipping our hats to the angels

Listening to every truth, ever told.