Sometimes drummers are taxi drivers hunched clean in the banana yellow ones the unanimous ones
Don’t lie to me.
Sometimes I wanna ride in his taxi and talk about the meat-packing factory his parents own in San Juan, how it flooded of Maria how it gets to Camelot or Washington Heights where the family owns a grocery store, haven for the locals.
Let’s go crazy.
The rotten meat can be salvaged with the vials of soft blood and dye in the backroom freezer. Just inject it like a sleeve of vaccines look away play something drastic sell it downtown we’re headed to Wall Street with the reddest lamb these executives have ever seen.
Don’t try me.
Sometimes I’m the one on the tambors beating them like I’d whack a slaver with my naked hands until they bleed and I bleed making the dandies hungry for something lethal
