Excalibur was never my strength; Lancelot was always treacherous.
I never trusted Guinevere, the Round Table Knights ever malicious.
The street-life my kingdom, the projects my castles.
The hustlers, shooters and stick-up kids, my vassals.
My upbringing like the water of a moat: stale, stagnant.
No drawbridges to escape from my illusionary palace.
The dregs of the Hood are exactly like Serfs, desperately fighting and killing, over a greedy Baron’s turf.
Owning nothing; yet, they squabble over scraps from a tyrant’s table, disregarding their own self-worth.
Where I come from, we don’t save “Damsels-in-Distress”.
Instead, we’re always on the run, avoiding threats of arrest.
In the ghetto kingdoms of vice, there are no such people as “Heroes-in-Shining-Armor”.
We have no time for that…We’re constantly engarde for the Shooter, the Urban-Archer.
It is, in all-reality, just a “dog-eat-dog” world.
There’s only 2-objectives: the gold & the girl.
We are not at all like the Kennedy’s of Hyannis Port.
Unlike them, our Camelot is not at all play and sport.
We just get it how we live, and live how we get it.
We all wanna be like the Jones’, not a spendthrift.
When we will learn that the fire-breathing Dragon in the tower is in fact our very own demons?
How many “unhappily-ever-afters”, will we have, before we realize we must write our stories?