Over a code of echoes dead Malcolm X is smiling on his stretcher someone mumbles no disrespect in the junkyard and his servants and killers carry him apart from bleeding he is smiling Harlem crimes are meekness in the evening walking too far without a chip or ripping your heart out while grinning so what if I did
And throw your music in the street with some hypodermic needles
Mingus and the Italian sheets of leverage as we re-litigate bow-legged speech some wires in a war hat that aim what a bastard I mean they were married but not to one another
I hope the communists blow you people up He quips I learn it’s cuddle with rebels and their rifles or be
Sold with cowards as their water
