Changing of the guard

The changing of the guard shines no light upon
The limestone where the passing of global climes
Has no say, brings no surprise, like that of a criminal mind 
That should rise to position of top rat racing for the prize,
“surely it can’t be?  Same as the old boss?” - only in disguise. 
The ideas chime like broken taps dripping 
In the distant misuse of The Hustler’s precious time
As Slim Jim, at once a scribbler of verse, slave to the rhyme,
Poet’s brigade in his prime, soon hung up his dreams 
Left the scene to build the beams of a respectable future 
By any means. Fell in with The Hustlers, 
The prize fighters training by rhythm of night
Made deals with the Caine Town Rats,
Sheltered from the rain beneath many different hats
To find the blight of good intentions has a might 
That beats the will of all well-meaning men’s insights. 
The changing of the guard shines no light, 
Only whispers in the dark that we are right
To keep our money in our sights and our skins out of the fight.