In the Big Yard
Rumors abound Inmate So-and-So done gotta parole date.
Last Monday, but sucker don’t even
Know his woman done run off with “sweet Cadillac Willie”
Who spent her welfare check on gasoline an’ blow on a new pair of skins.
An’ that scary lil’ wimp locks on B Block ain’t cool, man.
Snitched on his rap-partner ’bout that rape-kidnap-homocide-
robbery back in ’76.
Hit goin’ down in the Big Yard.
Stay away, Homey.
‘Cause bookies layin’ ten-to-one odds some lieutenant finds the rat with his head propped up on the end of a long shank.
When they find the body what they do is ship it home in a cheap plywood box, tag with his number on it swinging listlessly on his big toe an’ a “Whut have I done to deserve this?” look on his dumb ugly face.
Other day seen new blood shambling through the reception gate talking loud an’ all cocky like he Mr. T.
So a big mean lookin’ con doin’ life for mutilating his pregnant wife walks boldly up to
Young-blood an’whispers somethin’ soft an’ sweet to ‘im an’ next day Young-blood’s lips are red an’ glossy an’ his hair is long an’ straight an’ he’s switchin’ ’round the Big Yard
Like he Diana Ross
An’ the big con man says, “Hot young punk for sale, y’all!”
Squinting into the sun, Old Man “Pops” say he been down so long he done lost count.
“Kinda git used to it afta while, son,” Pops says: the big time hoods an’ their paper Cadillacs on cruise control.
The Hos on the stroll down the endless lightless white-clay strip.
Crack junkies chillin’ out on smoke-marshmallow clouds.
Pseudointellectuals over there rappin’ about the struggle.
An’ the hapless chorus of crooners tryin’ to sound like the Temptations. Pops says he don’t pay ‘im no mind an’ he ain’t listenin’
Don’t even care ’bout nothin’ cause he ain’t neva had a woman noway.
Old bones runs the Big Yard through
Chugging along like a locomotive that neva stops. Runs all day long-
Bookies layin’ ten-to-one odds old Pops plannin’ to fly right over the big wall.