with long hair, grime, and dope

to camou-hide the things that cannot be hidden.

They become runaway children

to walk the streets downtown with everyday black people.

Sitting on the curb crying

because we know that they will go back home

with a clear conscious and a college degree.

The irony of it all of course

is when a pale face SDS motherfucker dares to hurt

when I tell him to go find his own revolution.

He wonders why I tell him

that America’s revolution will not be the melting pot

but the toilet bowl.

He is fighting for legalized smoke, or lower voting age,

less lip from his generation gap, and fucking in the street.

Where is my parallel to that?

All I want is a good home and a wife

and children and some food to feed them every night. […]

I say, “You silly trite motherfucker,

your great grandfather tied a ball and chain to my balls

and bounced me through a cotton field

while I lived in an unflushable toilet bowl.

And now you want me to help you overthrow what?”

The only truth that can be delivered to a four year revolutionary

with a hole card i.e. skin is this:

Fuck up what you can

in the name of Piggy Wallace, Dickless Nixon, and Spiro Agnew.