Cottons Southern Man

More than a man, the south made. Black and white, south one started, great oaks refused no man a child to hang about it, call dark christmas. Hallow was a name, old now hollow. Stigma inside wears grey cotton memories, alive die uncompensated. Here, electricity has that sick sweet smell about it, as if it were once alive. While morality, debates in pockets of isolated votes packed together. Is It Poetry