Far from the throes with foes who dip acid,
still wiping flows from my nose, cooked by oil-based pros. The intensity grows, when it's mixed with White Whoes', and you come out yo' clothes, 'cause you're froze like Lake Placid.
"That's some good SHYT!" exclaimed on the laundromat curb. N**** STILL had a ten spot, for a stick of some herb, and it betta not be no damned reggie.
Veronica and Betty like glue, but they 'bout to come through, 'cause they're ATM's through. Plus I told them whoe's "Fix some spaghetti."
They never invited me into the White House. You know? Though for more than a 'dub, I was just a rock's throw.
I never linked up with NAACP, but got drunk in a spot with a man named Barry.
I never sat down with ambassa-door mats, but Jamaican representatives held me down pat. They put green in my lungs and a gat' on my back, and in twenty-odd years, we had but one attack.
Yeah, we was like that. A class of persons who fight back. These days, the surface of my heart is striped black, but if I be the harmed one, then my Moms' won't like that.
Definition of manhood, right? A male bossed by three wenches, his daughter, Mom, and wife. Somehow I find it a startling plan, to remove my , so you'll call me a man.
Chocolate City, do you miss me? If you do, the feeling's not mutual, not anymore.
Copyright © Mark Morris | Year Posted 2020
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