Bullet Holes for T-Byrd
By Felton Eaddy
The week before I left the city for the country
Under the dark gray cloud of COVID 19 virus
T-Byrd was shot mercilessly and grudgingly dead
Multiple bullet holes in the back and to the head
Right around midnight on a southwest Atlanta street
Co-starred in the weekend homicide local news beat
He fathered and raised, with Roni, one strong black son
Never ever thought a young black brother’d be the one
To take him down to the ground face-first on the earth
Some other black father’s son; some black mother’s young one
Days later they cuffed the 30-year-old killer
And tore his family’s heart in two; it was no thriller
He said “What he said to me at the store late that night”
As if it were solid grounds to put a father down
T-Byrd, streetwise, knew the residual danger-effect
Misguided, judgmental, suicidal black disrespect
Schooled and graduated about wounded young Negro ego
But he had no fear; he was home here for decades
And had no fear of these streets, these streets, these angry streets
Done called his name out loud and long and called him back home
This was T-Byrd’s finale’; he won’t be back next act
He has exited—solo--one last time—down stage left.
By Felton Eaddy
The week before I left the city for the country
Under the dark gray cloud of COVID 19 virus
T-Byrd was shot mercilessly and grudgingly dead
Multiple bullet holes in the back and to the head
Right around midnight on a southwest Atlanta street
Co-starred in the weekend homicide local news beat
He fathered and raised, with Roni, one strong black son
Never ever thought a young black brother’d be the one
To take him down to the ground face-first on the earth
Some other black father’s son; some black mother’s young one
Days later they cuffed the 30-year-old killer
And tore his family’s heart in two; it was no thriller
He said “What he said to me at the store late that night”
As if it were solid grounds to put a father down
T-Byrd, streetwise, knew the residual danger-effect
Misguided, judgmental, suicidal black disrespect
Schooled and graduated about wounded young Negro ego
But he had no fear; he was home here for decades
And had no fear of these streets, these streets, these angry streets
Done called his name out loud and long and called him back home
This was T-Byrd’s finale’; he won’t be back next act
He has exited—solo--one last time—down stage left.
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