Buddy Bee Anthony


Hawthorne Man


Such an angry young man
shufflin down the street.
Flat nothin to say to everyone he meet.
Folks try helping him get out of the heat.
He wears filthy, torn rags, with ripped moldy shoe casings,
over crust blackened feet.
Toss him some change, he'll just throw it in the street.
How'd he get to be that way?
Won't somebody please,
put a hit out on his miseries.
Town folk say he'd be much better off dead.
With a bullet to his head.

Got no friends, tellin you no jokes.
Won't let you offer on up your smokes.
Run down, hustled, jacked, took down, beat.
Flattened like a pancake on crackdown street.
The game is to put on for you a crazy show.
Who's lovin this baby, I don't know?
What a shame,
you've forgotten my name.
How did I get to be this way?
Won't somebody please,
put a hit out on my miseries.
Town folk say I'd be much better off dead.
With a bullet to my head.

Buddy Bee Anthony

Submitted: Monday, April 30, 2012
Edited: Sunday, August 24, 2014

Topic of this poem: poetry


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