Ginga Weave

Do not remember me for what I've done --
an ounce of pure, some pounding ill --
I've been what the favela made,
tin shack, the mansion on the hill,
a graver mound, still boss stone shrill.
Pop's bottled outbursts nurtured me,
my spirit thrashed through sweat and dreams,
as justice scales' dealt proud and strong,
where gang appeal bought status ground.
The ambitious apprentice duly found
toting the streets, my mouth and arms
spoke louder than vain preacher's sounds.
Me, profit shouting corner streets,
a passing shot, protecting turf,
some lift, new high for gutter swill.
Both girls and boys, the in-betweens,
unmoored, attracted by my charms,
on wrist, my fingers, bling, gold rings,
embrace, inclusive, welcome all.
A curse for my lover, reined in stall,
now bolted horse, burst stable door;
but I'll find him, lead gelding home!