It’s for the un-blooded
We don’t remember our mortality off-hand
So we face guns and bombs empty handed
The armory is our heart
And the will to survive is the only arm
We are bred here, in these streets
Far from Eden, closer to reality
The reality of Adam’s sin
Toiling and sweating for every eat
And whatever the hardship, we never retreat
The sun here doesn’t favor people
We are men with shells
Thanks to the fire that hardens clay
Burning us hard, reminding us we live close to hell
Even our bellies no longer run on food
-something deeper is the fuel
Our register is incomplete; it lacks the word for ‘give-up’
Hard times have had the vocabulary torn short
It’s a dictionary published in times of war
Those times where life is the only spear
When you lose words that express fear
The khaki is on our souls, we never retire
No matter what becomes of this battle of class
Whether we cross, or remain in the barracks
We are ever the soldiers of the street.
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