The Sauce

My name's not Springsteen,

But I sure feel like a Boss

Haters attempting to rag on me

Gonna feel a little lot of lost cause

  

Time's chipping away at this face,

Turning this ice into a sculpture

Marching on in the paper race

Fly like an eagle in a crowd full of vultures
   

Indian summer, August dies away

Surreality, more knowledge than we ought

These moments are chances we ought to take

With a side of the best ingredient -

The Sauce

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
My country
Our world

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