“Guramba” (or Nausicaan for “gumption”)
He spit the lit and dropped C-notes Like a fountain leaking water.
But when push came to shove I chewed on the tip of my smoke And stood my ground From a supposed above, Pseudo-resolute fueled unrelenting.
I guess I’d made the nasty habit Of always finding the toughest Son-of-a-bitch;
Come hell or high water, Bourbon or beer, One rabid glance, One jerk of the knee, But one and only one word That’d swing the winds, So suddenly to salt Nearly any moment And entirely; All to prove a point –
You will bleed or I will bleed, For even though it hurts like Hell, It reminds you that you’re still alive. It reminds me that I’m still alive;
And should I be the first to stand, More often than not, It becomes some sort of trophy That’ll make the drinks a little more sour, But even more so earned, more so Likeable –
Good thing I’m older now And’ve learned the means by which One skips straight unto the end Leaving the bloodied knuckles for others And the bruises of yesteryear at just that, An earlier kind of crazy With a special certain wild of the eyes.
- L.C.