You may look at me with pity
with societies mangled tribes,
you may run over me in your Buick
and never know I'm still alive.
Does my poverty upset you
while my jewels avoid the trash,
'cause I've got art and poetry
and that gives me more than cash.
In the morning I awake with
my head hurting from the lies,
but I see my girls that evening
with comfort and surprise.
Does a woman make you angry
that you want to slap her face
this shooter in my pocket tells me
you got the wrong woman, ace.
You may hurt me with your lips
and cut me with your sores
but as the blue monarchs sings
I'll fly right through that door.