Thursday, April 23, 2015

Whitney singing from the Wiz

It's    a   little    brisk      fisted   metaphor  for  places    I've  never   been adoring   you more  than   my     race   is   for/  sore     my sore    race   is  made   is   making the headlines  running for president      White man chooses oppression    in order   to   crave  black   music        boring coveters that    they   are     we    are  too    I mean     glued to the magazine  holding it close to our eyes from both sides    a  wide   grin   would   be   the meanest   inheritance    Papa       when  I think   spinning I only picture  men like you   on   stages    her duty    last stage    was  to fake  like  when I think of home I  think of a place   where     her   duty   last stage   was   a page  in the baptism   dig   back   as   the fierce  wimpers of almost     U N I O N       crawl   toward  a chemist's word  and turn it wooden   in the     orange and blue  feelings