We are the crude, the loud, the obscene.
We live in shadowy back alleys
and speak of things better left
on 49-cent-burger Wednesdays
at dusk behind a warehouse.
We are the things you hid your kids from.
The baby-rapers,
mother-slayers,
grandma-robbers.
And yes,
I hope you'll think of us
next time you get
baby-raped, mother-slayed, or grandma-robbed.
Cover your child's eyes, mother,
hide them from this smut.
Keep them far from poetry.
But not for long.
Because you can hide them from the songs we sing
but not, my dear, from everything. |
Submission Name: Crime
