Friday, 13 January 2017


The 'Future' really chills me,
I guess 'that's too much sauce'.
Keep saying you can't hear me,
O blast! That's too much noise!

Bugs feel racist, 'Black beetle',
Man, where is the 'Plan B tool'?
Rae, she's mad, call the weevil,
Dialed it wrong, rang the devil!
Dang it, 'Look what you've done!'
Why carry a cross, are you a nun?
What is tomorrow? The weekend!
Saturday's fine, Sunday's wicked.

Cents earned, were, I think, Fifty, 
The Nine bullet shots, that's nifty!
And that makes our boy a gangsta,
If lit by a gang, that is a 'gang star'.

"Broken Bars"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


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