Oh sorrowful song,
As the chords they go—lifting minors
And falling majors, flat to the eyes, D minor
Of the saddest song:
                    He sings with a choke of voice
                    Smoke from the lungs, a smokers abyss
                    His pipes are cold,
                    Blackened in the airways of the exhaust
                    Exhausted by the pleasures; only pleasurable at first.
Oh where are the words
The words to speak ill of another colour
Must of been caught up in the smoke—in the years
The years he said them marginalizing without remorse
In it's race, sped into discriminating; on his own tracks
Of how the world must only revolve around him
His wife had shed a tear in her prayers, "Lord do a working in him"
                  But his heart was made cold and hard
                  A stone—paved by cement of his opinions concrete
                  His racist abuse was made public, non discreet
                  So how would he fit a colour of world being discrete?
Oh the upbringing, hierarchy forced in eyes
To follow a father's pride—a fitting bride
He was unaware she wasn't hundred percent white
And in the end, both father and son died alike
Ironically chocked by the black smoke rewarding cancer inside
                    _The sad life of the black smoke racist_🚬
                        The son hopes not to follow his father's line of smoke.
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 10:14 AM UTC
Oh sorrowful song,
As the chords they go—lifting minors
And falling majors, flat to the eyes, D minor
Of the saddest song:
                    He sings with a choke of voice
                    Smoke from the lungs, a smokers abyss
                    His pipes are cold,
                    Blackened in the airways of the exhaust
                    Exhausted by the pleasures; only pleasurable at first.
Oh where are the words
The words to speak ill of another colour
Must of been caught up in the smoke—in the years
The years he said them marginalizing without remorse
In it's race, sped into discriminating; on his own tracks
Of how the world must only revolve around him
His wife had shed a tear in her prayers, "Lord do a working in him"
                  But his heart was made cold and hard
                  A stone—paved by cement of his opinions concrete
                  His racist abuse was made public, non discreet
                  So how would he fit a colour of world being discrete?
Oh the upbringing, hierarchy forced in eyes
To follow a father's pride—a fitting bride
He was unaware she wasn't hundred percent white
And in the end, both father and son died alike
Ironically chocked by the black smoke rewarding cancer inside
                    _The sad life of the black smoke racist_🚬
                        The son hopes not to follow his father's line of smoke.
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