Our smiles, our cracked smiles
Never roomed longer, for our freedom was a week holiday;
Our hope was dust, swerving afar.
We are old, soiled
But the buffoonery lumps, needles us
We want to tarry our weary heads, but the storms are masturbating our purity.
Our songs, our lost lay are whooping
We are, but birds caged in mud, stifled, and our lymph swelling.
We are tired, unassured of our pride
But this time, our suffocated voice will be raised;
We can’t live unheard
For we are wounded divas, rubbed by a sick rat
But tell him, that our walk with him has dropped.
Our backs will never be raked with thorns
And our wild toot can’t dwindle.
We will let the children repose, the elders rest
But our youth won’t be isolated
For we will redeem the impounded franchise
Even if there be an endless carnage.