Welcome to the South,
where we teach
Christ's compassion,
rather than put it into action.
Where we honor the
Red, White, and Blue,
but only want to share it with a few.

Welcome to the South,
Where our values are just as backwards as our deep fried diet,
and our minds are
just as closed as our hearts.

So pull up a chair,
or a double-wide,
Grab a peach
or a pecan pie,
'cause ain't nothin'
gonna change,
till DixieLand dies.

Your heart,
it is light and pure and honest...
and mine,
mine is heavy
but unknowingly and oh so sweetly
you help carry the weight

And on Sunday mornings
when you awake in my bed and you smile, yawn, blink,
stretch or even just breath,
I think,

NO, wait,

I know,
I was born just to see the green of your eyes.

Your tiny hands are a compass
not because they point
or because they fit perfectly in mine
but because I will always follow them.

Let me please always be a warm bed,
a piece of peace,
a comfort.
Soft, safe and quiet and still.
Soft like my mother was;
with her hands caressing my skin
she could heal any and all wounds.

In whispers let me sing,
"I want to tell you how much I love you,"
as your lids slowly and softly cover your eyes

Going back
through our chats
a tight knot
a knot
tightening,
I choke
it wells up
inside
I hold
on to dear God
Mercy, mercy
pain
it hits
wave
forms
I drown, I drown
until
a poem comes
to save.

Shop fronts, curbs and pavements.
Bin men wear hearts on their sleeve.
Coffee shops, bakers and jewellers.
A homeless man searching reprieve.

Adverts and billboards shine bright.
The cleaners have swept the streets bare.
Commuters and tourists combined.
This city called London we share.

Marching to a steady beat
Marching to a steady beat

The pavement are veins
People the blood
The city the heart

Pumping the beat
Pumping the beat