If I Am Going To Be A

I Cut My Teeth As The Black Raccoon-- For Implements Of Battle.

Ever At Thy Glowing Altar Must My Heart Grow Sick And Falter, Wishing He I Served Were Black.

Quaint, Outlandish Heathen Gods Black Men Fashion Out Of Rods

Dame Poverty Gave Me My Name, And Pain Godfathered Me.

My Poetry Has Become The Way Of My Giving Out What Music Is Within Me.