What happens when the dream gets put on hold,
Like your own life done called timeout on you?

Does it wilt and wither away
Like a three-week old decaying bouquet?
Or get all puffed up, pussed out, and pimply
To get popped and poured out of pores?
Is it left stanking (what was you thankin?)
Like rotten meat (forgotten beef?)
Or maybe rank, maybe ratchet,
Disgustingly sweaty feet?

Maybe ambition
Just gets hustled
On the street corner

(might snatch ya necklace)

Or does he snap,
Get strapped,
Load the gat,

And fight back?