Berg of the Nation's pride we are;
out-gone for our navel with courage of anger,
thirst for mid-isolation we marched,
hunger for equality – we halt,
in de-exploitation coup we conch,
in ask of our independence want.
Patriotic troops we are
out-worn by the wrath of arbitatry seats,
out-worn by the almagation of the whites,
with eyes on our blinded gold.
Black boot troops we are;
like bees of the air, we breds the uniform of blacks,
like lake of springs, we carp the culture of our beings black,
inguishing the white paints of pain in our globe.
Amidst the bliss of bereavement;
bereaved for our navel's polish.
Armons of the nation we bear-
laid among trees with liveless courage,
laid in ocean with swampy strategies,
with bullet-proof lives for the nation.
Negro squad we are,
in ward of ruthless wit.
If death arth ours, shoot us,
if our live arth gravery, imprison it,
if our being hasth bricks, entrail it;
if ours,-thou shall leave...
The dim moon rumbles round the curtain;
/ inquishing ferros and terrors of dawn tales
/ flattering beneath and denut the roof,
/ in frightful soulful chat,
/ ambushing the figured chrome
/ rumbling with the mind! Soul
/ like tah chee raws
/
/ I evoked in darkness,
/ leeping through flesh,
/ in mimicked peeps sign in to read more »
2012-03-16
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