Posted: November 7, 2013 in The Marshall Chronicles
Tags: , , , , , , ,

True, I got me some Anger Management Issues, but it always injustices get me seein’ red. I was mad enough at my lil bro Connor the other day – turned out he been stealin’ some poor boy’s Trump Cards, which is bad business. He brung shame on me and our Mum. So I scribbled this down, help teach him about Right and Wrong. I guess teacher at school would call it a Parable or somethin’…


Lil Bro cravin’ new Air Max
at a hundred pounds a pair,
four times the cost of the plastic lot
my Bro presently wear.
It ain’t just, bein’ broke and bust –
aint’ he deservin’ ease?
He pesterin’ Mum to buy some
like new trainers grow on trees,
rent ain’t hangin’ right over our heads,
bills buildin’ beneath our feet,
cooker in need of replacin’,
heater ain’t givin’ no heat.
Bro sit in a sulk an’ he stomp in a strop,
cursin’ an’ shootin’ her glares,
cos lil Bro desperate for Air Max
at a hundred notes a pair.

Tell me how’s he think he’ll get them
if Mum ain’t dishin’ out notes?
Convinced he look like a street tramp
cos he got scuffs on his coat.
He needin’ refinin’, slick redesignin’
ain’t gonna be no scruff.
But bills come first, our family cursed
with a lot less coins than luck.
His threads be lame, his looks be tame
his crew all label him style-less.
Ain’t in the game, no dice, no chance,
his pants are Poundland’s finest.
Yo, shrug enough, cos life be tough,
nuff of us share these cares.
But lil Bro must have his Air Max
at a hundred notes a pair.

Clock that younger? Unwise, foolish,
transgressin’ our estate?
He got Air Max, ain’t they Bro’s size?
Tax him for that mistake.
Our Mum taught us: do not steal.
Ain’t lessons hard to learn?
Lil Bro threaten to smash that kid
unless he pay his turn.
Tax: one Air Max, call that two.
Kid passes through bare-toed.
Lil Bro got bounce, he strollin’ smooth,
now due respect is owed.
His crew ain’t cussin’ Bro no more
but give approvin’ stares,
now Lil Bro sportin’ Air Max
at zero cost a pair.

Marchin’ home, puffed with pride,
dancin’ to our door.
Bro’s footprints jus’ like fingerprints –
he broke our family law,
brung home shame, like somethin’ nasty
trodden on that stinks,
a trainer trail for all to follow,
find us in a blink.
Bro think we welcome him back home
and share his crooked grin?
He passes on his special gifts –
two basic, tragic things:
he bring disgrace, he bring despair
for the rest of us to wear.
If the shoes fit we must wear ‘em
But tell: what cost a pair?


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