Slow steeping hills
Always running
Away from the people beyond 96th St
In the heat rising up from concrete tires
grinding into lost souls terrain
That is where you’ll find them
Smoking rhythm and blues down to the
Nub, submerging its skin in the
Thick grease and grime of ghetto love
And Unchained expression
Listen to the opera of hip-hop silk into the
Gutters of 125th as the base of funk-infused
Feel-good blues slews the sway of
The ancestors’ grandmother
They say a different kind of rose blooms here,
but a rose all the same
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