With Now-and-Latter taffy fuel
The players strap laces.
Round the back
Crafty swoops
Face-the-basket passes.
Ball in.
Bawlin’ court pleas.
Shoulders locked in
short sleeves.
Manny picked his number
when he missed the jumper.
Need to go up,
to go under.
These niggas hopped out the gym
Once.
We swore they just got out the pen.
Thunderous soaring.
Now it’s a game.
We play foul, but
the punk wouldn’t call it.
Grunting, stave him off.
Slay him. Cross.
You know he’ll jack,
if you tax him in the paint.
I’m feelin’ it.
Just as coach arrives.
we’ll be coaxed to try.
“I turned my ankle
by them bros
burning on the bench.”
Sit this one. He’s got
too many tricks.
