We Lurk Late

At Myrtle Avenue, from the J, M, Z station. 

I've posted this poem by Gwendolyn Brooks before on here, but it bears revisiting. It's where I got the title of this post: 

                   THE POOL PLAYERS. 

SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL. 

We real cool. We 

Left school. We 

Lurk late. We 

Strike straight. We 

Sing sin. We 

Thin gin. We 

Jazz June. We 

Die soon.