Born by the River

I was born by the river In the shit-stinking tent of a tired sharecropper The year was 1916 The year reeked of power Power and stench of trenches and machine-guns over men Power of white over black My parents fought out their own personal Southern Somme on pure snow cotton fields and I watched Watched my parents kicked like curs to the curb Mewling, whining, drowning in their river, I watched Half a century later did I have a choice? When I saw him, King Martin Luther Blowing down the walls of Jericho He was Muhammad in Yathrib, yearning for Mecca Though dying of thirst, he gave us water Clean water, our water His insidious dreams invaded my thoughts I had to fight Did I have a choice? No, nor do you Now, a withered crone poses as me Her mind stuck in a looping, lingering record Understand, though, that when I reminisce I'm only washing you clean of that shit-stinking tent Their river of vile intent This is my secret, sacred drop of water