Marsha… Marsha… Marsha… – C. Z. Heyward

C. Z. Heyward

Marsha … Marsha … Marsha

Wasn’t looking to live large
Just lovely

You know

like the Brady Bunch
All blonde and beautiful
With a dog named Tiger

Except I wanted to fuck Marsha
and Carol too
Yeah I know
Not in the script
But neither was my life

Prison Sundays

was the only time I didn’t have to go to church
Except my moms still made me wear that
punk ass suit
with the
punk ass tie
And those
punk ass shoes

Visiting Daddy
in Attica

Guards patting me down
I was ten
Get used to it
one of ’em smirked

Like I was stupid enough to carry my screwdriver there

Showed Daddy my report card
All A’s
Not bad for what I was supposed to be

What was that again?

Oh yeah
That’s right
Just another nigga in the ghetto

Which meant I didn’t surf in Hawaii
with Greg and Peter
Me and my friends
we surfed the tops of elevator cars
21 glorious stories up and down

Until that day Ricky slipped
I was there but I wasn’t

When the cops ask

You never are

I try to be a kid
Go to the corner store
Buy a pack of Now & Laters
and steal a Charleston Chew

I’ll live Now
I supposed
die sooner than Later I guessed
Cause right in the mix they sell candy shaped like cigarettes
Packaged in fake real cigarette boxes

Now that’s ghetto candy
Cause I’ve never seen sweet Cindy sucking on that shit

Blue Magic
China White
Caballo
They sell that in the candy store too

Funny

No commercials on TV for where to buy your dope
or play your numbers
but everybody knows where

Is this my life God?
to know the unknown
And father a child before my time
with the first girl that says

Si Papi

because she’s too scared and stupid
to know what she wants

I watch the pigeons
circling and hovering above Grant’s Projects

They have wings
But won’t fuckin’ leave
So what chance do I have?

I watch the Bradys
They’re going to the Grand Canyon

So I pack my bags and pretend

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