What Goes Up...

ode to Stephen Jackson

Stephen went a clubbin', to no one's surprise,
To smoke dope, view strippers through bloodshot eyes.
When out on the street, after havin' his fill,
Found someone's fist connect with his grill.


In a Blue Olds the assailant then fled,
And tried to clip Stephen, knock'em dead.
Bringing the baller to a state of such scorn,
Man, nothin' good happens at 3 in the morn.

Pulling his Nine from out of nowhere,
He squeezes five rounds off into the air.
A display few had before ever seen,
A Taliban wedding, it could have been.

All we can hope is that no one was around,
When those bullets rained back upon the ground.
Yet another issue of inane depravity,
By an insolent pro athlete who knows nothing of gravity.