The Culling

The Culling Happiness is a beautiful smiling word, That soars the skies like a radiant black bird; Culling ebony sheen downs from her sable breast To fluff and cushion the crib of her protecting nest. Murder and death are conjuring words too; Sneaking around and stealing your children from you; And though their bodies pile up in streets and on the bloody ground--- Like trees chopped down when no one’s around, justice hears no sound. The long arch of justice has been bent backwards to times of old; The streets have replaced the hanging tree and the noose by a bullet hole. We now understand the strange fruits stories of which the ancestors once told; One by one, our little sheep are being justifiably culled from the extended family fold. While we cannot and must not substitute one tyranny for another, We will and must protect the seeded child of every black mother.