shut your mouth. You ran over
carcasses that you outwardly flout. Don't throw
stones till you lived in my house! Don't point
fingers when you didn't lend me a hand. If you

wore my shoes you couldn't even stand. I've
walked miles with blisters and bruises. I'll not
listen to what a man's views is. A man eating from
a silver-spoon, a man that is a tycoon has

only clay feet. He parades in suits
on the street past the homeless lady with
the swollen face, past a group of teenagers
of colored race. The only thing swollen on
him is his head and his wallet. The only thing

colored is the stone is his collet.  I call it
a crime to hear him speak, to lift his nose
and say that I'm weak. I'm still moving in tattered
shoes, still climbing even as I'm bruised.