Racist pharmacist refused to sell a Negro some Paracetamol
My ego denied me to beg this parasite-rat-mole.
Like a Moabite I bite back
Pull out my revolver, it’s my instant resolver
A morbid resolution. My only solution.
See my Nana been ill
She been in pain for real.
But this superior antagonism undermines the realism of our existence.
My logic is scattered like the brains about to be splattered on the wall.
The balm of sweat on my forehead. Flash back. Nana sore head.
The silent buzzer conjured the law enforcers in a bat of an eye lid.
The resilient bugger is the obscured version of me, yet here I am. Lucid.
Just another fellow trying to do good by straddling the yellow line. I am Robin Hood.
What’s good. I drop my weapon and lift my hands in surrender.
Rendered motionless by their advanced weapons. You see mine is just a toy. Plastic.
My nephew’s toy gun and ill Nana is all I got. But I am face to face with real guns. Drastic.
Bullets rain on my puny body. Perforated.
Can’t fathom because I cooperated.
All I wanted was some paracetamol for my ill Nana.
I hope they give Tommy his toy gun. See, it’s his favorite toy. No pun.