Oh, Go drink yourself sloppily! I’ve had enough
Of your running your circles around the fun park.
I am here to make merry – not here to make do
With a sense of self less than the sky is bright blue.
Though I’m not that Olympian, I make my mark
By my pumping out powerful poetic stuff.
‘All black men think they’re poets.’ Is such a remark,
In its absence of meaning, a mental workout
For the one who receives it? It does put a cramp
In my mind for a mile. Will I emerge a champ?
I make meaning of whatever I think much about.
If I think about bullshit, my outlook is dark.
So, I write of the fecal, as it falls my way.
That is not quite as often as one might perceive.
I’m an athlete. My well-crafted body is made
With some knack for the verbal, although I’m a spade.
If I cared about what others care to believe,
I’d be lost in a theme park with no will to play.