Friday, February 9, 2007

Old School

A band of baked men
With black souls.
Ashes of black hearts
Smoked over coals.

Three natives thrown over-board
Four murdered,
Five busted vocal-cords,
As silence had--
No greater chant heard.

Rotting black skin
Chained hands and necks.
Men tortured thin,
On enraging decks.

Mother of murdered babe
Slamming her fists;
Her man's voice roars on the deck,
Her glimmer of hope--
Her ounce of bliss.

And earth reckoned
As our voices rippled the ocean:
"We bled your cups hard and full--
Now take us back to Old School!"

Copyright © macalurs 2007