Page 14
By Jack Joseph Smith
Let us stay internal with the glory of our loss
The dust of Arizona and the salt of Utah
Here the street knows nothing of misery
Gangs split into singular sorrow
The blood is high enough to spit colors
And down goes a world you never thought would
They by your own is what is yours is mine learned
And watch hell raise when adverture is strapped down
Chance is what we have running to significent mistakes
Watching and walking across the Moon we know danger
Dramatically Catholic at the sea of Gallic
And with self the best God can get with hatred
Do unto others; make a shot, make a dart
The best of troubble, the last of Lot