Tag Archive | social commentary

Life’s Buffet

TheMagicRealist.com

…A magnificent lineup – A feast fit for kings…
This life is a Banquet for palate and taste.
And it’s simply no matter that things may be there
That are not to my liking. ‘No need to despair.
I just pass those things by. There is no time to waste
Finding fault with the lineup and other such things.

By default, I’m invited. I’m one of the race
Of the billion-fold dining in this earthy hall.
The fine dishes are many – too many to choose.
How could I sample all? Some things I must refuse.
I don’t think that my preferences cater to all.
We each eat life differently. That’s no disgrace.

It’s not wise nor appropriate that I complain
About food that I think shouldn’t be in my sight.
Because I’m just a guest at this feast like the rest.
I should bless people’s differences. This way is best.
You may like eating things that, to me, don’t seem right
But through mutual respect, we have so much to gain.

Rain Sylvania

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a thing about rain that my heart won’t disdain.
It will keep folks inside, out of others’ affairs
So their shape-shifting eyes, in their neighborly fare,
Can’t catch up on my business. Folks should be aware
That I do my own thing, not that anyone cares.
If you’re that hooked on folly, come out in the rain!

Put on your best tutu with water resist
And gavotte past my window with smartass in hand.
Take a me-mie of me as you’re tempted to pee.
I might stream you my shtick so you’ll do it hands free.
It’s a shame your garage door is shut by demand
Of a powerful Lady who seems rather pissed.

I dare you, dear neighbor, delight in the storm
Just the same as I do but with just a slight twist.
Park your butt in your yard like you usually do
And collect all your intel with rain helping you
To deliver wet gossip no sponge can resist.
I’ll enjoy the rain. You just stick to the norm.

My Purpose In Life Is Joy

TheMagicRealist.com

One may ask of the kitten, “What justifies you
To just lie there immune to the chaos around
While we humans run ragged with cares up our butts?”

That which can’t be addressed will then drive ourselves nuts.
But the kitten will answer with softness of sound,
“I just purr for a living; that’s all that I do!”

There’s a lesson the kitten is willing to teach
To the human who often gets lost in the game.
The basis of life is the freedom to be
And its purpose is joy, most emphatically!
When one cares less more often, one might take the blame
For all others’ misfortunes, as heard in their speech.

I am freer to choose newer pathways to joy
With each dawning moment successive and pure.
In my joyous growth I do add to the sum
Of all that exists now and all that will come.
All-That-Is will partake, and my joy shall endure.
My life is my kitten, and I am its toy.

I Am an Expression of All Creation

TheMagicRealist.com

All that is physical came from what’s not.
I extend from creative nonphysical Source.
I am so much more than this body I know
Though it is part of me because nature says so
And also the law of this space-time, of course.
I’m of spiritual origin. This means a lot!

Am I the god that I pray to at night
Asking provident peace to engage as I sleep?
Do I ask The AlmightyThe One where I came?
Would it be blasphemy if we both were the same?
I am the good shepherd as well as the sheep.
We are one and the same, and that feels about right.

In this powerful now is the key that I hold
For allowing the flowing of Source that is me.
The better I feel the more Source I allow.
There’s no better feeling my Source than right now.
When connection is made it is easy to be
At my best, growing wiser and much less controlled.

This World Has My Back

TheMagicRealist.com

This world has my back and my mother’s brown eyes
Just as surely as all things I’ve ever dreamed of.
Since the world has these things – all existence, in fact,
I should call that wellbeing where good thoughts are backed
With the promise that goodness and kindness and love
Are my birthright. I don’t have to listen to lies.

I must reach for the feeling of wellbeing first
So that everything else will then fall into place.
If I’m troubled, I feel like this world makes no sense.
I oft’ sink into stasis when life gets intense.
To remember life’s wonder is my saving grace.
Pretty soon, lucid living will be well rehearsed.

I am selfish enough, now, to follow my bliss.
When I do so, I tap into natural flow
Of pure energy, positive and of my own.
Should I act like I’m happy? I’ve no call to moan.
So perhaps I should live what the wise ones must know…
This world has my back. There is nothing amiss.

Conceptual Hypothetics

TheMagicRealist.com

Hypothetically speaking, and straight off the grid,
And with utmost propanity possibly pure,
I must stand by my tank; I have me to thank
For positions I hold. With my wealth, I out rank
Any group that I chose. There’s a possible cure
To most any solution that isn’t well hid.

My tank is a treasure – a place of deep thought
On the puzzles I give it and pay it to solve.
I’m not bothered by facts; I kick back and relax.
My workers work best without me on their backs.
By token the same, though, solutions involve
Quite a bit of pure theory and how things should ought.

Thoughts are real things,” most wealth wizards have said
While the concept still boggles the everyday mind.
It’s a fact that all theory has birth in the brain
And when thought can’t escape, it will drive one insane.
My tank is not fancy nor one of a kind.
It’s a toy for the rich to turn gold into lead.

Frolicking Folksicles

TheMagicRealist.com

Frolicking Folksicles flaunting for fun
Among those who might eat them must take balls of ice.
And they’re colored, enhancing the eater’s delight.
Were they black and white only, it wouldn’t seem right
To consume them. Just looking would surely suffice
As one’s licking gets boring when all’s said and done.

Folksicles firmly propend to make peace.
It’s a principle pinnacle to their affairs
Of the heart and the mind and the spirit within.
With abundance of slurp, there is no need to sin.
There isn’t much else one could suck. But who cares?
If it weren’t for bright Folksicles, warring would cease!

What gets folks in a pickle, most Folksicles say,
Is the way we lose focus and blither head on
‘Til we sensate the melting – Folksicle in hand.
If our mess is sufficient, we voice our demand
That the sun should take cover – at least until dawn
So that Folksicle eating will yield no dismay.

Satisfactorial Combinatorics

TheMagicRealist.com

Suffix tor’s at the core of a syllabic war
Between what one wants and what oft’ one expects.
If believing is being without a sore clue
Then whatever you’re winning will satisfy you.
Any feeling of tension that thought disrespects
Puts a force field around what we love and adore.

Oh, Creator of Being, if you exist how
Then on earth do we know you? We’ve screwed with your word
Over centuries by now. When one speaks about facts,
We’re submerged in pure fantasy due to our acts.
What is known about God is well spoke by the bird
Who knows only Being and living the Tao.

Take a chance that your being is seeing its way
Toward a better believing for each now to come.
Be the one among many to whom life’s a breeze.
One can call oneself lucky as far as one sees
That a magnate’s no more than a lowly street bum
Who has cashed in on spiritual wealth day by day.

Utensoids United

TheMagicRealist.com

Utensoids United in condiment space
Sets the scene for first contact of quite the third kind
On a wall, in a house on a rock spinning ‘round
In its own starry kitchen where space does abound
And without incognito, they’re easy to find
Or to decline their visit, if that be the case.

Utensoids can stand being hung by the neck
And it doesn’t upset them to be used as tools.
Since they’re built really tough, you can’t use them enough
To uncover their cover. You could call their bluff
But they just might leave master cooks looking like fools
As in secret, they shape shift; there’s no need to check.

The Utensoids have come to keep watch on us all.
Not a single one wants to do harm nor insult.
If you grab a Utensoid, do so with intent.
You don’t want the damned thing to mistake what you meant.
If you handle it well, good will be the result.
If you’re cool with Utensoids, then stand proud and tall!

Talk To Me, Mama!

TheMagicRealist.com

Krakkabukkle-KaBoooom! That’s what I like to hear.
Mama Nature is talking. Let’s give her respect.
Whether quick burning arrow with rumble in wake
Or night whitening flashes that know no mistake,
Nature’s message is clear. Our fair ego is checked
By the Masterful Lady who crafts Atmosphere.

Show your thundermost cloud! Let me feel you shout loud!
Even though I can hear every whisper you speak.
There’s a world who don’t know you. You have every right
To react in a voice of intent and of might.
Strike me dead. I will join you. It’s truth that I seek.
I’ll commune well among you. To you, I’m avowed.

Why I make such a habit to hear Mother speak
Is a thing of scant value to ponder too much.
I just like a fine Mama who’ll run it down hard.
One is ill to complain that She plays the ‘wet’ card.
She’s one bitch you can’t fuck with nor lie to or such.
She’s the feminine version of deadly mystique.

Not In My Time Space Reality

TheMagicRealist.com

To the scientist centered in flat earth and Mars
The Big Bang occurs everywhere all in a flash.
Everywhere outside galaxies expands  in size.
This prolific phenomenon speaks through our sighs.
What’s outside this expanding is anyone’s hash.
What else could exist but space, planets and stars?

Now, the answer to that is a thing we call time.
It’s the fourth quad-dimensional piece of the pie.
Altogether, reality’s clear to perceive.
My perceiving is knowing in what I believe.
My wisdom comes partly from what’s in the sky
And the rest from attempting to make verses rhyme.

If I did have you fooled for a while, I’ve done well.
It’s my pleasure to do so for science’s sake.
Reality’s boring. It must be made fun.
I’m the son-of-a-gunest that’s under this sun.
Not that science is useless… That thought’s a mistake.
Now that this poem is finished, there’s no more to tell.

What Gives Us the Ass?

TheMagicRealist.com

This Ass we’ve been given… this judgment we hold
Toward those nations we feel that aren’t grown up enough
To develop big toys and display their might…
Who has given us right to tell others what’s right?
We are like stubborn children who like to play rough
With strategic mind warfare. This story gets old.

Some old kid on the playground is acting the fool
Like an overstuffed time bomb that’s ready to burst?
Why we pay such attention and crave being tense
Is the same as why others create such events
That then get nations talking and fearing the worst.
The mind of the ne’er-do-well is a fine tool.

Such is life during recess… No teachers in sight…
We have no playground monitors watching our deeds.
And our toys are quite dangerous; our threats are a bluff.
Are we players who know when enough is enough?
Not a player is crazy so no one proceeds
Down the ultimate rabbit hole without a fight.

We Know Stuff Already

TheMagicRealist.com

Hey, we know stuff already, though new in the house
With our feather still soggy from compacted space.
We don’t have complex brains nor chick self-help degrees.
We’re pre-programmed with guidance; we’ve no need for knees.
Such tools are for hoping and praying for grace
And for nurturing thoughtforms in line with the louse.

Our mother, herself, had no mom to look to.
She did hatch in captivity… nursed by machine
Yet, she knew how to raise us. All mothers know how
To tune in to what’s natural, indeed, with the Tao.
She scratched for us lovingly; then she got mean
Just to teach us a valuable lesson she knew.

Our dad is cool also, raised just like his mate.
He’s the one who said, “Dear, lay our eggs over here
Where those humans won’t find them and snatch them from us.
I will bring you your meals, so don’t put up a fuss.
When our babies arrive, they will live without fear.”

So, take it from us; inner guidance is great!

Rock Paper Scissors

TheMagicRealist.com

Black Lives – That’s a matter pertaining to me
Just the same as it did half a century ago
When the fear was the white-hooded witches let loose
Wreaking havoc and living by way of the noose
And the lynching and bombings and crimes we don’t know
So, perhaps my believing is now what I see.

There were stereos then, also stereotypes.
Both were loud and obnoxious and prone to the brawl.
There were also those games that are played even now
Where the zero-sum outcomes are preplanned somehow
And uneasiness comes with the sound of a drawl.
Ornate stained glass ceilings have turned to crack pipes.

There is usually a winner and rarely a tie.
We know one beats another in circular chase.
Stiff black Russian roulette can be served over ice.
Black blood does bleed red. This one fact should suffice.
The gears keep on meshing. It’s all about race.
I don’t bark at the bugbear; I know I might die!

Ego: Mirror of the Horse

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t mind my beast. I’m a bastard today.
I’ve a bit of the bitters; that’s just how things are.
Some government worker said I cannot vote?
When the system is screwed I become the scapegoat.
I become wild and crazy with outburst bizarre
And it seems I’m the ogre; their system’s OK.

Says the system that I voted elsewhere today.
It’s a cock sucking lie! I don’t care what it shows!
I’m a flesh and blood human. I don’t understand
How they bow to machine and give me the back hand.
Maybe government workers are robots… who knows?
Yet, if I am to vote, I must do it their way.

I’m ashamed of the way that I acted today.
I had no idea there’d be an exam.
I feel much like a horse someone’s trying to break.
If I bask in my wildness, is that a mistake?
I’m prepared for the next test. I won’t have to cram.
This damned horse is exhausted with no more to say.

Gated Community Logic

TheMagicRealist.com

The community’s gated. Just what does that mean?
Simply, zeros and ones must be put through the test
To determine what gates they have passed through by now.
By endorsing their circuitry’s past they allow
Just the best of the best; in fact, screw all the rest.
God bless those who know how to keep a yard clean.

As we’re mated and fated through life we assume
That our truth table’s flawless like digital flush.
We are OR’ed and/or NOT’ed, determined by creed
Then Exclusive OR gated, then sorted by breed.
When we miss a clock cycle, we’re quite prone to blush.
I must hire a workforce who’s good with a broom.

It is quiet as hell here. There isn’t much crime.
The streets of doped silicon melt winter snow.
There’s a path to corruption through bi-stable states.
There’s agreement about what a good member hates.
We have one foot substrated in earth ground below
And the other one striving to monetize time.

I’m Not Here To FIX Anything

TheMagicRealist.com

Like the Maytag repairman, I came with some tools
And some skills and a passion to find things to fix.
I like breaking things down and then building things up.
If it weren’t for my tasks, I’d be such a sick pup.
I don’t run for office, nor do politics
And perhaps that’s what separates me from most fools.

That would not be the case, though, had I not been told
I’m not here to fix anything. Nothing is broke.
Things are constantly changing and expanding so
There is constant renewal and much room to grow.
So, so much for my fixing; I’m best to unyoke
My life from such missions that make one grow old.

Find release from all struggle and seek to have fun.
Find joy, and in doing so one will align
With the fantastic, expanding rhythm of being
In a universe made for believing and seeing
Wherein any problem will work out just fine.
I’m not here to fix anything under the sun.

Art of the Autist

TheMagicRealist.com

The Autists are coming. Indeed, they are here.
They’ve been teaching among us for decades by now.
I am proud they are with us. They’ve nothing to hide.
I’d intended to be one myself, but I died
From my wounds incurred wrongly by default somehow.
I am social, somewhat, and that’s my greatest fear.

Where the stronger the Autist from birth through ‘til grown
The more God’s protection is given because
Those who can’t be adjusted or harmed into place
Show that love, unconditional, all should embrace.
It is clear our conditioning should take a pause.
It is wiser, perhaps, to just leave them alone.

It is funny; society says something’s wrong
As they look for a cause as if it’s some disease:
Too much crap in the water, folks, let’s tone it down.
Too severely they’re happy. We must make them frown.”

We’ve the right to let others do well as they please.
It’s a massive inclusiverse where all belong.

Near Perfect Nonsense

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve a fond sense for nonsense that’s naturally pure.
If one strives for perfection, it’s always the case
That when foolishness fettered, then nurtured the same
Will recover in time to return to the game
Of living life loony. How goony the space
Of nonsensical numskulls with mirth to endure.

It may be nothing’s perfect in terms of nonsense.
Many pieces of silly must fall into place
So they dance about smartly in demented minds.
I’ve a fondness for jokesters. God bless their behinds.
I would be one if not already the case.
So much humor and laughter and fun I’d dispense.

Progress is perfection in some people’s hearts
And a verb is a noun just because it’s a word.
A fun clock is a camera; its film is the soul.
There’s no need for development; that’s not the goal.
Take your time from the hippo instead of the bird.
It is how we make peace before war ever starts.

Verbal Plutocracy

TheMagicRealist.com

…I can’t use the word ‘android.’ It’s now just a name
Like so many unwary words hijacked these days.
If I use it, I risk myself being mistook
And whenever that happens, I seem like a crook.
Forget about ‘robots’ assuming our ways.
It has happened already. We’re hot in this game.

Some boy said ‘google’ one day on the floor.
‘Twas not even a word but has rolled into fame.
It’s grown moss on its own to the point where it’s now
The most baby-like utterance that we allow.
I applaud the fine youngster for making a name
For himself and for masses of others and more.

But I also commend the sharp critic in me
For observing how language can market its parts
And how war against structure continues despite
Futile efforts to stop it. So, does it seem right
That our words become ransom for few greedy hearts?
How immune to disaster must words have to be?

Reintarnation

TheMagicRealist.com

Does this count as a life? I don’t care either way
But only in terms of the marrow and bone.
There’s too much going on; there is thickening air.
If the purpose of life is to love and to share,
Have I done much of either? I quest on my own
To unravel life’s mystery day after day.

This life I am given may be near its end.
What manner of taste does it leave in the heart?
I don’t care that I’m going; it bothers me not.
It is where that I’m going that soothes me a lot.
I just hope I don’t have to come back and then start
A whole new exposure to re-comprehend.

This world is a trip. Any creature would say.
And it ain’t like I’m troubled or deeply depressed.
I’ve just seen enough traffic on these busy streets.
I behold mass congestion’s miraculous feats
And I come to concluding that I should invest
In a starship where I would just then warp away.

Don’t Fuck With Me, Nigger!

TheMagicRealist.com

Pump-a-Boooom! Pump-a-Boooom! What a plague to describe!
That rumble is distant yet headed this way.
There’s no denying that message is Force
And it’s done to disrupt my wellbeing, of course.
It’s on me to unravel this sick nigger play
And it baffles me so that we’re of the same tribe.

That Boooom becomes rattle, sustained to the max
As it draws ever closer, disturbing my space.
It’s riveting shock waves rip right through my heart.
You have mouths full of venom. I DO NOT take part
In the trashing of woman and verbal disgrace.
Pull your pants up, sound weapon; it’s time to relax.

When war comes to me, I don’t see it as race.
We are all sorely human, obsessed with our ways
Of extruding our phlegm from our psychotic clouds.
If you want your dick sucked, then go find the right crowds.
I’ve no need for your nodules of nebulous haze.
Get your pimping assed homies to cum in your face.

I don’t care who you’re talking to, boy. It ain’t me!
Keep your Noise to yourself and don’t shove me around.
I’ve a hair up my own; I don’t need yours as well.
There’s a place for your talent: With Poets In Hell.
I would hang you myself or else keep you well bound.
Am I proud we are brothers? I’d rather be Free.

Mirrors of Perversion

TheMagicRealist.com

‘If we don’t study past events, we’ll repeat them.’
Now, that kind of Jed Clampett logic begets
Every manner of discord and personal strife.
We can learn from mistakes but not make that our life.
We regurgitate sorrow and brand our regrets
Then we brainwash the young ones – it’s they we condemn.

What to think of a woman’s miraculous meat
Since there’s substance attached and a spirit within?
Some men think it’s a menace; it ties the world down.
Any man who supports it must be nature’s clown.
Any woman who speaks out commits a grave sin.
Although physically real, we are thoughtforms in heat.

Before calling one crazy, it’s good to ensure
That one’s own funhouse mirror is spotless and clean.
We are creatures who speak about God, then we kill
In the name of His Love, then we call that free will?
Our perversions are manifold and clearly seen
Through the eyes of our shadows whose sight is yet pure.

Boomers Bused

TheMagicRealist.com

Someone said that it’s my fault the word is a mess
And that I’m the one who’s been sucking up air
With my head held up high in a narcissist cloud
And with all in my age group fat, happy and proud.
With no thought of tomorrow, we live without care
As we trickle down deep concern to all the rest?

I’ll consider that verdict and treat it as such.
It seems I’m a tower of guilt anyway
By the theory I’ve chosen my home upon earth
To stir up much mayhem beginning at birth.
I have lived a good life and don’t have much to say
About others around, so I’m cold to the touch?

Perceptions are many; I’ve said this before.
It’s a pleasure to catch them and put them to words.
I take comfort in my choosing not going there.
I heed the heart’s warning, “Dear writer, beware!”
I’ve no will to defend myself; that’s for the birds.
Way before our departure, we’ll even the score.

What To Do With This Day

TheMagicRealist.com

What to do with this day… I don’t work anymore.
I do have a job, though, and that’s to stay sane.
So I do that by making sure I’m thinking right
And by moving this body from sunrise ‘til night.
Put a shark in a jet stream and give it a brain –
That’s a screenshot of me focused dead to the core.

In a fishbowl where I alone circle around
Searching high and low for something novel to do,
I often find things I had prior misplaced
Then I take to rejoicing; I’m no longer faced
With believing those things were just gone without clue.
I am grateful for things that today will be found.

I will start this day off as I usually do
Feeling grateful I’m kicking and feeling at all.
Then I’ll get settled, comfy, with mint tea in hand
And embellish the wordsmith whose labor is grand.
My life, like my poetry, may seem banal
But it does keep me going and loving it too!

A Most Literal M

TheMagicRealist.com

M could be for Matter. We’re all made of some.
It’s a consonant catered to personal glee
That could mean any number of beautiful things.
It’s the essence of M-ing for which the heart sings
When a detour through eye level leads to the sea
And momentum ensues like the beat of a drum.

M could stand for Messy or Menses the noun
As the mind mingles meaning, malfunction and more
In attempt to decipher why nature must play
In promoting such urges that cause due dismay
For those of a flavor not prone to ignore
That magnificent manhole just south of the mound.

One may wax anti-lingual and labor the view
Of the sequitur logic against sucking face
With another one, hairy, of mucous and warm.
Nature caters, in time, to what’s not the norm.
Why is man sloshing sultry beset with disgrace?
When it comes to linguistics, is M good for you?

I must think of that M just as if it were me
Since we’re most made of microbes; from mother they came.
Could it be that when nature finds man in a rut
She gives the command, “Get Good Guys in your Gut!”
To help out with digestive health just the same
As the flower most surely gets help from the bee?

Barking Trees In the Forest

TheMagicRealist.com

Now the dogs are all barking. It’s seven a.m.
And the kids are out romping around the car port.
They are ready to load up and get off to school.
Yet the dogs are still barking. Perhaps it’s the rule
In the forest where barking trees oft’ come up short
Of attention from humans… Such pity for them.

The children are free, though they’re taxied the same.
And they ramble on doggedly nipping the ears
Of their own, chatter boxing as hard as they can.
They get full response for the slightest demand.
But the dogs are still barking. Should I be in tears?
I’m the stark rabid neighbor who harbors no blame.

It is closer to eight, now; their pleading has ceased.
These bastions of bark, having finished their trial,
Will begin once again as the children return.
If they barked for a living, what fortune they earn!
Dogs have voices like timber that grow for a while
Then fall flat in the forest where heard not the least.

Every Good Printer Should Wipe Its Own Head

TheMagicRealist.com

Every t that’s electric should cross itself well
Just as socks unattended should stay decent pairs.
Every printer that prints other than in 3D
Has a head that needs wiping.  Its will is to be
Of its own clear volition, effecting repairs
Of its own fettered systems so balance can dwell.

Every i that is manual has had its day
Now the age of blue-toothing and why-fi is come.
Someday soon a device will have nary a button.
There’ll be so much to love for the technophile glutton.
Every i that exists will have class – not just some.
They will dot one another without much delay.

I’ve managed two printers. My one is a girl.
She presents not a problem when I am offline.
But the other’s a jerkoff who laughs in my face.
It thinks I’m the bozo; I’m prone to disgrace
As it sounds off to me. I concur with its whine
Every time there’s a mis-feed I’m made to unfurl.

Do I Make Myself Clear?

TheMagicRealist.com

Do I make myself clear? What a question to ask
Of someone not even of scientist mind.
I am sorry, Ron Hubbard, this ain’t about you.
My notion of clarity has much to do
Not with others’ perceptions and mine intertwined
But with certainty that my speech performs well its task.

Do I make myself clear? I’m not sure that I do.
Sometimes words escape meaning and thought fades away.
I don’t speak just whatever comes into my mind.
It’s the process of living among humankind
That evokes from within me what then I must say.
Though I seem partly cloudy, my sky’s nothing new.

Any poet who’s ever made home upon earth
Has had ample reason to write through the heart.
Every creature that speaks or lets loose with a cry
Should have something to say that would brighten the eye
Of its bated beholder who’s state of the art
In its skill at perceiving and discerning worth.

Coon Cranny

TheMagicRealist.com

I do have a coon cranny. What’s up there these days
May be of some interest to those hating blacks.
After all, since it’s up there, let’s talk about why.
When a coon has a hair, it is hard to deny.
When my speech gets grotesque, it’s not substance it lacks
And the smell of wet chicken flesh tends to abrase.

We are quite the bald eagle. Its right wing is right
In its hatred of niggers. There’s still ‘civil’ war.
When black folks see my talent, they swear that I’m white
Yet when whites view my work I’m ignored out of spite.
There’s a thing about hatred my soul does adore.
When I’m pushed to a limit, my black ass will fight!

What a mess has been made. This is ugly, dark shit
From the pit of a toilet marked ‘colored’ somewhere
Live on stage in a Twilight Zone plantation scene.
Don’t forget, I’m a nigger; I’m born to talk mean.
My job is to ‘nig’ and give white folks a scare.
If you think I am truthful, then you’re the nitwit.