1991 Riot.

Every other night, just going for another.
The uniforms file out.
Men take place.
Opening band starts.
It begins a race.
A clock counting down.
Each note played counts the second.

The opener closes out.
Cheers follow behind them.
Hush take the audience over like a cobras venom.
Denim crowds, anxious screams.

Guns N’ Roses clamber out.
Set list rolls, as the skies let a slumber sought.
The camera flashes, and the ending is bought.
Axel screams, a bump in the road.

A dive is taken, and cries are heard.
Punches thrown, and a smashed camera reside.
The fire supplied.
Tense grip, grabs the crowd.

Axel climbs back, reaches for the mic.
“Thanks to this lame-ass security, I’m going home”
He shouted as he took a step back.
His chances blown.

Roadies rush, cables taken back.
Equipment broken down.
The tour bus expels.
Hope is repelled.

A roadie roams out, facing 21,000 strong.
A snaking hose stalks behind.
Water rushes out, spraying ten, fifteen rows.
A eruption of violence follows in tow.

A barricade assaulted.
Bottlenecked and trapped.
Anything in reach being thrown.
Securities throne overrun.





Ten-One Thousand. A call goes out.
Ready to respond, of such a a bout.
Riot shows, clad in black.
Shields at guard, ready to attack.

Original forces, called to retreat.
Knowing, their almost beat.
Fires burn upon the hills.
The sky cried ashes, of the flame that kills.

Darkness creeps upon the stage, screens ripped from place.
The end of the race has shown.
First aid stations fill.
A deathly still.