by Paul Broussard
A pusherman’s life can be as lonely as a morgue
Part of the hard-boiled façade of the ghetto
Black hoody, black Jordans, and a black crackhead
The snow is exchanged with a hello
Jody Perry, Floor
That smooth cat could have the fuzz with him
That moonlight could have a razorblade in it
With an unemotional ambition he must watch for jackers
and jackals who too know that the sky’s the limit
Bleeding the block in a drizzling rain
No one knows his real name
Careening through the city on a cocaine train
However, all that was accounted for
including the lawyers and the court,
was more than he could ever afford.
