Come Shot

Title art By Laurie Simmonds. Click image to visit her studio.

Listen to Suggested Audio:

N.W.A. “Straight Outta Compton (Instrumental)”

We’re comin’ at cha
Hunting season’s open
Better hope we do not catch ya
One man’s cry of pain is another’s shameless rapture
With double time on gain
We’re comin’ at cha

There’s red snapper on the platter amidst all these oyster crackers
Doesn’t matter if you batter it, in actual fact, you’ll flatter it
This seafood dish is catalyst, be foolish to dismantle it
Looks dapper when it’s candle lit
Can handle when the scandal hits
Panel beat evangelists
Drive nine inch nails through sandaled feet
While burning sticks of sandalwood
Hangin’ tough like a tampon should
Smash all the stuff a vandal would
Do all the snuff a random could
Up to much, ado about no good

We’re comin’ at cha
Shiftin’ stick and in quick time
With no brakes to apply
Burnin’ asphalt flame while blazin’ rubber rings of fire
This streetcar you desire
We’re comin’ at cha

Does not matter if you happen to face facts or ask us to retract them
Chapel Black don’t roll like that, each word translates to action
Chip and pin not requisite to sign off this transaction
Lend us a cadaver and we’ll give you back a fraction
Distend us your bladder and we’ll duly see it slacken
Look into these eyes, recite your last rites as they blacken
Know which side we’re fightin’ for
Hosting thoughts, mostly impure
Choosy with compassion
Singin’ blues to moody fashion
Malefaction couture
Satisfaction’s guarantor
Says as much in the brochure
Main attraction, guided tour

We’re comin’ at cha
Bang on track to cut some slack
From the rubble, double jacked
Could be trouble, that’s our knack
Watch those backs for Chapel Black

Here’s a fun-filled fact
We’re comin’ at cha
Our best defense attack and we are all about the capture
Every intention of reaching legendary stature
Declarin’ dread and we ain’t even Rasta
Cuttin’ stiffs to ribbons like we’re whippin’ up a Fettuccine pasta

Shattering illusion that we cannot win for losing
Flattering contusions as we cruise in for the bruising
Choosing not to put you under
While we plunder, steal your thunder and tear your shit asunder
Smiling like assassins, never lacking wide-eyed wonder
Call it crime of passion as this happens to be one defining factor
Run like hell, we’ll meet you at the capture

We’re comin’ at cha
Way too late to turn back now
Got the knowledge, got the power
Got the swagger of twin Jaggers
Got the cloaks and got the daggers
Got the body bags and toe-tags
Ain’t got no time for Prozac
Give it up for Chapel Back
We’re comin’ at cha

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill