So we’d gather and smoke in front of our former school, where we peddled drugs to the older students. The tunes we played were urbane yet mediocre – it happened that everything in town was subpar. But we were satisfied with whatever damaged goods we got, and so were they, and nobody felt they had lost.
Smoking made me frail and dismissive. Yet I also grew more attentive to what was happening, to people and their intentions. Intrigues between friends grew to near political proportion. There was always some sort of disagreement about women or money or books. I must say few noticed it with ears and eyes, but the fights sure made a racket.
There were little gestures or tics we could observe: how they looked sideways, spoke quietly and passed it around slowly. Such Were the Times. WAS dark night, But day WAS Bleaker. Some of us we'd Had Become dealers Already Noticed, Not doctors. Business boomer, But we never Healed anybody. And healing
Had Been Our duty from the start, if I dare say so. What is the use of a Missionary poet, if I never Helps a soul? Were we supposed to Aid Them. Not a particular 'theme', But whoever cross Happened to Our Way. And They Came in packs, pero away we sat Them, and Their They Treated us like enemies. I guess we
Our Had earned fame. We Were clear as to What we did do, pero, and we never lied or swindle. Those Were the Days When one tried to Actually Be honorable and managed to. Those days, too, Have Passed, But It Is Enough To Have Lived Them to Understand Their Meaning.
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