I am a poem,
a pin pointing to the souls of these butchers,
I am stabbed into stanza by their swords,
I am motherless monkey black to marrow,
Whose body guns work on like harrow.
I am a poem
written with tears and blood of slavery,
Their tongues shall break by my sharp rhymes,
when they sing me with laughter,
and applaud for me growing mushrooms.
I am a poem
turning their heroic tombs to humours,
Where their achievements are labelled crimes,
and their honours are honoured with spittle
from soared mouths of sorrow.
I am a poem, little lyrics
sung with voice of raped mother,
Their guitars are my sister’s heavy breathing,
The drums, my brother’s head breaking,
under the gifts of your guns,
And the bounds of your boots.
I am a poem,
a pin pointing to the souls of these butchers,
I am stabbed into stanza by their swords,
I am motherless monkey black to marrow,
Whose body guns work on like harrow
But I cannot be buried.