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The first thing U do is set me up,
The black family heritage guilty of what,
The bold intrusion of how they are beautiful,
The silent suspense in the body of the funeral,
The city separated from the mask blown out,
The shovel developed from the lost ones bout,
This is the deep south, crosses repeat the bondage,
Blues slay music, women portray the carnage,
In other parts of the world confusion takes hold,
Separated from wisdom, Mockery of gold,
Trenches are dug but dominance prevails,
What source is the black family if gangs do well,
U cant see the direct need to contract,
Because U blend with traffic in seek of facts,
But the truth has passed for the hereafter,
Both country and city hold me captive,
I cant trust a soul that enters my area,
My son and I will take his mom to bury her,
Her, as I type, a critical cross,
Old and new stubborn the cost,
If I raise alone then the fact of the door is open,
My stubbornness buys out more than that is molding,
Bursting the cracks that resurfaced the wall,
Let her mind tell it she was after it all,
In a place my ancestors await the fell,
Making years upon purgatory of those that O’ Well.
