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You hound me for my number like 

it’s such a crucial thing, 

but then I give it to you and 

my phone don’t ever ring. 

You say you gone so much ’cause you 

just “handlin’ your biz’,” 

but if your “biz’” ain’t playin’ mind games, 

then I don’t know what is. 

Been tryin’ to find you for three days – 

you gone without a trace – 

then got the nerve to call me from 

your babymama’s place? 

And oh, speakin’ of mamas: why 

you still livin’ with yours? 

A damn-near thirty-year-old man 

still doin’ teenage chores. 

Instead of goin’ to work or school 

for some financial gain, 

you spend your days with video games 

and nights with Mary Jane, 

but while you always have enough 

for clothes, new shoes, and ice, 

your ends don’t fail to fall short when 

I just want somethin’ nice. 

Keep this in mind for the next time 

you wanna step to me: 

a boy must first become the man 

that he pretends to be. 

(© 1999 Marcus Harris, originally published in Songs In Search Of A Voice)

I’m tired of always hearin’ how 

you dog me to your friends, 

complainin’ ’bout how cheap I am 

’cause I don’t share my ends. 

Spend all your dough on weaves and nails, 

so how can you get hot 

when I won’t spoil you ’cause you waste 

what you already got? 

I gotta have fresh clothes and gear 

to keep me lookin’ fly, 

’cause if I don’t, then you’ll just quit 

me for a flyer guy, 

and when I’m hangin’ with my boys – 

which I know ain’t no sin – 

I can’t be gone ten minutes ’fore 

you page me to check-in. 

You always think I’m tryin’ to creep – 

like all men just can’t wait – 

but just because the hook is there, 

don’t mean I’ll take the bait. 

Remember this each time you think 

my life is yours to run: 

already got a mama – I 

don’t need another one. 

(© 1999 Marcus Harris, originally published in Songs In Search Of A Voice)

You know Kamilah’s boy – 

the big-head one 

that stay right down the road? 

He robbed a bank last week – 

but ain’t even 

turned seventeen years old. 

                                     I ’member when his daddy 

                                     cut out –

                                     chasin’ waterfalls – 

                                     and left his mama, young and

                                     with her

                                     back against the wall . . . 

                  Now, it ain’t none of 

                       my business, but:

                       deep in my gut

                                     I always knew

                                        without his dad around

                                        he’d end up in the streets –

                                     she knew it, too,

                                        and tried to lock him down

                                        to save him from the heat –

                  but then he fell in with

                  them ’hoods on 54th and West –

                  now got a daily habit

                  smokin’ weed like cigarettes,

                                                  drink liquor like it’s water

                                                  even though it’s ninety proof,

                                                  and struttin’ ’round with baggy

                                                  drawers and ’bout fifteen tattoos.

                              He dress and talk

                              just like

                              them thugs in all them

                              music videos,

                              and jump from one

                              girl’s bed

                              to the next – but got the

                              nerve to call them hoes –

             just got

             a second baby (though he’s still

             a child himself),

             and stopped

             goin’ to school and church, so now

             he’s somethin’ else:

                   stays out all night, just loves to fight,

                   will cuss a sailor outta sight,

                   and all because his “boys” think

                                  it’s alright . . . 

             Now, it ain’t none of

                   my business, but:

                   I’ll tell you what –

                                I’ve seen a bunch like him

                                that came and went

                                and acted just the same –

                                seems like the only thing

                                about these boys

                                that’s different is their name –

                   but one thing that I’ve noticed ’bout

                                               each one that’s always true:

                                               it’s funny how they act just like

                                                          the dads they never knew. 

(© 1999 Marcus Harris, originally published in Songs In Search Of A Voice)