SHACKLES IN THE ANGLES
By Immaculata Ortner
Woe at thou faint hearted blacks
Thou at neither black or white
Wishing our black could blend with white
Which spot like dirt in our prudent race
As our black blood, bled, blue
To Water their loamy fields of flowers
We clustered in the sun!
And toddled in chains!
While wild whip map our black and bull-like temples
I must say no to the will of these pale faced wolfs
To free the seeds in my loins
Than dance to the tune of trailing chains
And shackles in my angles
And watch my heirs in pen