Scraps

I am what I am

And I do what I can

But that doesn’t mean

I can poetry slam

Like a ghost on the scene

Or a con on the lamb

I’m a stanza fiend

Without a plan.

I hold every hit and make them last

Like every hit from all the joints of my past

I used the last of my kif from my grinder

And my little blue bowl is cashed

And I don't mind a bit because its

Rolled up Dutch in a spliff like hash.