Wait a minute Black man
If I understand you right
Theres an enemy you fight
Whose skin is light, and grips you tight

So you’re stuck in the hood
Misunderstood, drugged up, junked out and up to no good
he throws you in jail, for the same **** the ****** man gets out on bail

Paying 250 dollars were his biggest fears ,
While you don’t even sweat
12 generations of slavery; two fifty years.
So I ask…………………..

Why do you …….swallow promises from a….. promise breaker?
What makes you……. think you can receive life from a…. life taker?
These words are
nothing new,
its all in the family
Death IS Uncle Sam’s Nephew
Poverty his Cousin and Exploitation his brother
I want to cut ‘em from the *** of, yes, hypocrisy his Mother.

So when I look at this country and say “your mothers a *****”
Don’t get me wrong I mean nothing more
I’ve just figured out what my history’s for

So when I say “wait a minute Black man”, once more
What I’m really saying this for
What I really mean, is that you and me
We got a common enemy
The ***** of America—Hypocrisy.

I’m trying to say that I am not numb to where you’re coming from
For I’ve been there too
You thought I was another ******* hypocrite
HaHa The jokes on you

Cause I can see the invisible hand that guides the economics of life and death
Of hearts I break
And of breath’s I take
Of dreams I make
And the money I rake

I am no fool, there is no wool over my eyes
I am no tool to my peoples own demise
250 years under the yoke
But exterminated I will not be
Forever a thorn in the side of hypocrisy

So when I say “wait a minute Black man” for the 3rd time
This is what I want you to hear from me
Do not fornicate with that ***** hypocrisy
And beget children who will forever be
Just out of reach of the American dream

But most importantly, and especially to those like me
Those called the Penobscot, Mohawk, Seminole and Shawnee
Forget about your reparations,
Uncle Sam’s bank account has been emptied
The collateral was truly……trails of tears and Cherokees
And to demand from one man that which he took from another man is Hypocrisy

So when I say “wait a minute Black man” for the 4th time
Hear this,
40 acres and a mule promised you are still mine.
Native American heritage boils in my blood, but you can’t feel it
If I ink it on my sleeve, you neglect to see it

But the EARTH is ours, and a globe will show it
Theres a place called Africa, of this you know it

Lets you and I take a boat ride
across the sea
Fight on one more front in the war on Hypocrisy

Liberate your people unto whats entitled them
Let’s stop losing brothers to the lust of gems
This precious piece of our earth, this is where it ends

It’s still a rock, a stone
We’ll go back home,
halt the broken hearts and bones
that are caused by the greedy man
Who forces the needy man
To dig speedy through the sand
And find the tedious ingredients that make wedding bands
For the mother of the man who forged this plan
For hypocrisy and her favorite son, Uncle Sam

We shall raise our voices and object every time she marries
We shall, without remorse, abort every fetus she carries

A poets weapons are metaphors and similes
With these we can forever be, thorns in the side of hypocrisy.

The Little Bessy  molts its white chipped,
dull letters out to waves it cannot use.

Capsized on the rocky Maine beach, where  
it once fished for lobster in richer anchors,
the peapod displays its tattered nets on its hull
while the Man O War, filled with a haul of tourists,
bruises the gentle waves of Penobscot Bay.

Its oars are mounted on the lobster shack wall,
its sails framed in the nautical museum.
Abandoned are the days it was pulled
from its moorings on the wharf and sailed
through Penobscot air or spilled weighted circles,

days that were longer than any of its old parts,
times when old hands  hoped for better ways
never knowing they’ve come and gone.

Its broken, rusty anchor once met the spent waves,
the hands holding and releasing it down
to mate firmly with the mount, the moment
when the old lobsterer father firmly grounds
The Little Bessy’s wanton desire to push out to sea.  

Betrayed and exposed every day, run by no one,
Bessy drifts into beauty she never desired:
the pretty postcard in the wharf gift shop,
photos  taken by others rushing by in other boats.
when she was always meant to be the secret  
memory of the lobsterer hauling up his lonely pots.

What climate change you talkin' bout,
it's not a problem, we'll be all be fine,
in our lifetime, in our lifetime
but in your lifetime kiddo not so much,
for the times they are a-changin'.

It's not an issue, excuse me have ya got a tissue
my eyes they’re a-burning, my belly it’s a-churning
just drank some well water cost only a quarter
yep, still some to sell at the bottom of the well,
it's a little bit gritty as I write this ditty,
while coins they rock it in my back pocket
so here's to sockin' it to ya kiddo,
for the times they are a-changin'.

The permits they’re a-passin', no more a-sassin’
now excuse me please I’ve gots to sneeze,
or pass some gas or do a puke always happens
when I float in da Luke aka Penobscot Bay
but don't you worry ' bout us oldies we'll be just fine,
sorry for some water you’ll need to stand in line,
for the times they are a-changin'.

Now I'm a-thinkin,' maybe at Woodstock
we shoulda done less drinkin’ but hey,
we were busy havin’ our fun,
not like you young ‘n serious ones,
we set out to use it up, so keep on a fillin’ our cup,
remember dear children like we always said
they’ll be no more worries when we’re all dead,
for the times they are a’changin’.