Don'T Saddle Me
Some bigot under cloak of conceit, bids us sit
Around some common table to dialogue again
About my tired tongue, and the iron clawed bit
Bringing my freedom to rein. Your scheme is vein
Do not saddle me with the burden of your guilt
That son is too hot, I will not let you mount
My need, while fragile as a flower my manhood will
Under saddle, boots, stirrup and void account
Of history. Take off the riding habits, Sir, yield
Rising torrent of old fears, for those who are humble
Shall find grace. Your words your hidden daggers concealed
From the eyes of the young, I am old to the jungle
And have ate sweet cane and tasted its bitterrness
Of beginning. Love florishes best beyond all duress
And time and numbers speak for me, you so late
Cannot again close opportunity's cringeless gate.
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