That Music

That good music has always been played, To whose tune we've always been made. Come and see how we dance ourselves to death, While they prepare our places in the earth. We are puppetted by crook fingers Muted by prospects of our bread. Oh! That strain again, an abomination. Our ancestors rusting in the earth Weeping. We sing and pray to their heaven, their white God, Praising them drunkenly in the taverns Our funny suits clinging to dripping bodies- Cups filled yet again for our health. And we sing, drunks babbling. And as we wine like dipsomaniacs, Our gold and fruits are minded- We sing in ecstasy urging the crime Pleasing their greed and killing the time. When they have stolen enough and gone, Back to those taverns we run To sing and dine with ghost Laughing at us from the shadows. Ha!Ha!Ha!