One night by the S44 bus stop,
I stood there,
Complacent,
Witing to get home.
I was decompressing
From another argument with my girlfriend
Over fuck knows what.
I was vacant to the world
Waiting for my sapphire chariot to arrive.
Suddenly,
My wandering eyes
Accidentally locked with a trio of thugs.
They came out of their car and surrounded me.
I was not afraid,
For I knew they thrived
On the fear of Caucasian men
Ridding their turf of white devils.
They let me be,
Simply complementing me on my bling
And asking me to thank them and God
That they spared me.
I did,
But I was only paying lip service as they drove off.
I could have given a flying fuck
If my ass got wasted.
My already existing suicidal tendencies
Nearly became a self-fulfilling prophecy
Among the hands of gangsters.
Maybe I should have taken it as a sign.
Maybe the blood that would have oozed from my skull
Was not worth the blood in their name or constitution
Three street vigilantes with crimson bandannas
Might have been prophets
Encouraging me to float on through life.
It's too bad I couldn't have realized it then.
I guess that's the price of apathy towards self-preservation.

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