They couldn’t work the case.
Witnesses heard no words exchanged the day Small Change got rained on with his own .38
When lurking birds of prey were perched on powerlines at 1st and main,
watching the blood as it ran in a puddle that came from his body now turned into grey
and his favorite shirt was bathed and covered.
You hear the rumours percolate and the news paper vendors shouted of an upward curve of the murder rates.
Dirty faces gazed in disgust. Seeing every circle traced around the shells that fell on the ground that surround where the shooter had earned his name but nothing really changes.
Bootleggers and beggars lost in limbo.
Sixteen stories up, some kid with vertigo still washing windows
and the cops arewanting info from the pimps and gutterbirds that always asked them for a cigarette and their badge numbers first.
And the hustlers keep on hustling. Pickpockets work the crowd. Shopkeepers who shout as they’re swinging their brooms to sweep the vermin out…
and the perverts’ mouths are firmly closed but always twitch at the corners.
As well as the fiends who wanna get seen as long as it means that they’re getting a quarter.
And this is a horrible place to raise anything besides suspicion.
All the passer-by’s look grim as violence hits a high statistic.
The walls of the city are looming… and getting out is a pricey ticket.
Yeah, home is where the heart is but that doesn’t make it nice to visit…
cause the alley stinks of piss and liquor where the drunks all talk the same.
So they all have a million stories about that one that got away.
The hail of bullets came but barely stained the curb that day when Small Change got rained on with his own .38
That’s right, Small Change got rained on.
Just go home, you’re too late.
They jerked it straight out of his hand, turned and aimed it at his face.
The burst of flame licked his cheekbone, a bourbon bottle fell
and the jackals cackled madly to reserve their spots in hell.