THERE'S A FUNGUS AMONG US
Born in the San Joaquin Valley
We played in a ghetto alley
And learned to adjust to a changing clime,
Just like the many packs of rats
That must avoid the alley cats.
A fungus to the grapes upon the vine.
Even though the filth of our skin,
Made some frown and others grin,
It was a line that most would never cross.
For when it came down to it,
And we were forced to do it,
Our dukes would settle which of us was boss.
The bosses, often came and went,
When a lucky blow would vent
Upon the jaw of some unlucky soul.
When school let out and work was done,
We'd hang around in search of fun,
'Til we'd smell the steam of beans in our bowl.
We knew of the Great Depression
And about the retrogression
That our parents were passing on to us.
We saw the guys up North of town
With cars, and gals in evening gown,
And would duck as they came beside the bus.
But most every Friday night
In the shadows of the light
We'd wire another Rich-Dude's custom car.
Then off we'd go and drag the main,
While they stomped and cursed, in vain,
We'd watch their head-down walk, from afar.
Today they say, "White men can't jump."
In our day, living near the dump,
Oblivious to its wind-borne stink.
Where the filthy rats would breed,
We were superior . in deed
And many times did say,
"Rich-Dudes.Can't think."
Another war of North and South,
Found ghetto-fodder for its mouth
But probation officers had to fudge
Grand theft to a misdemeanor.
With a very pompous demeanor,
Joy rides were mitigated by a judge.
Korea pruned and thinned the vineyard.
Some, it drove severely inward.
The few of us, who missed the body bag,
All came home to a different setting
Sick of the red-blood-letting
In a war, about which we'd never brag.
After getting all the knowledge
Offered by the junior College
Rich-Dudes joined us later in the thunder,
Who many had to follow,
To a shallow grave we'd hollow,
Duty bound to a ninety-day-wonder.
We stood and fought through thick and thin,
But, in a war we'd never win
A war, where politicians pulled the strings.
Just when we had them by the throat,
We were stopped by a stubborn goat,
More the puppet pawns than human beings.
Parked in the San Joaquin Valley
I sleep in the ghetto alley.
I've learned to adjust to a changing clime.
Much like the mangy motley rat,
That must avoid the alley cat,
Still fungus to the grapes upon the vine.