Clinging to the eternal truth
That manaña never comes
But put all faith in the dawn of tomorrow
All the eggs in the sunlit basket

Because here, now,
In the dust of the crushed buildings
The pettiness, the bite of bullets from rooftops
The megaphones screeching their siren songs across
The dredge of forbidden earth,
Here and now
We embrace,

In the dawn of mañana a mother feeds a son
Toasts are made
The Spanish smile and
Gesture to the sky;
They are undefeatable
In the face of defeat;
In the face of mañana.

Maybe people did not realize what they had done.
The ****** of the people and their hope.
Africans are no different, so why were they treated as such?
It's better now! Tables with no signs that say,
"White Only."
Benches for everyone to use. One drinking fountain instead of two:
One on each side of the building.
One in the same!
And college, striving for a better future
Is an option.
Now, was that so hard?

Aren't they supposed to be people, too?
Pigment is really that important?
They are not *****!
A separate restaurant,
Drinking fountain,
Theater,
Bench,
Everything!
Because you can deal with "different" people.
They had "rights,"
But if they were considered people, the segregation would not have happened. They had no choice.
The conditions were worse.
How is that fair?
Hardly any jobs were open to them.

And I know you know exactly what I am
Talking about, but I never said once
That almost everyone called them that one despicable word:
******.

A man was elected with no view on the most controversial issue.
Ignoramus within the southern states believed
This man to be a danger to their lifestyle and their
Wanted rights.
One by one, they became their own.

One fort, Sumter, became a commonplace for
Controversy. Belonging to the north, within the
Newly founded Confederate States, the fort was tossed back and forth in a game of table tennis.
A threat of war hovered above their heads, but supplies were sent.
No weapons.
No orders to attack.
Complete neutrality.

The attack came from an impatient general Beauregard,
Who ordered his men to open fire,
In a hope to force evacuation and surrender.

It worked. And all hell broke loose.

Such small things: a farm in the north, a plantation in the south.
A small urban home rather than
A mansion on the edge of an enormous field.
Paved roads and rail road tracks inside cities instead of
Gravel paths through paths of trees and cotton fields.
Business men walking by or a rich plantation owner
With two African slaves at his side.

They can cause conflict, major differences.
Political views and moral issues.
How the country should be run?
How the people are to live?
The laws and abilities surrounding slaves?
Is it right to own another human?

I'm told foie gras will change my life.
That it's savory, exemplary
to die for.

Ironic.
Someone already did that.
A gavage in his throat...
plumped, fed,
suffocated by
his own fat
like an inflating noose
on an unwitting neck.

Ironic also that
his flesh inflates my girth
and feeds my gluttony.

"Stupid things...
don't even know they're dying."
Dying indeed.
A slow and painful death.
And how deserving of it, yes.
Stupid things.
Too stupid to recognize their plight.
After all, don't the stupid
deserve their fate?

Ironic how - to this day -
we still think we're so much
more evolved than
our forebears.

Evolution aside,
The Divine Rights of the Food Chain
still stand.

I do not understand it,
therefore it is less intelligent than I,
therefore I have the right to torture it.

I made it,
therefore it cannot live without me,
therefore I have the right to ruin it.

I own it,
therefore it is mine,
therefore I have the right to **** it.

Our strength grants us Divine Right, indeed.
May the kingdom prosper under our boots and be grateful, for
history has proven us such gracious and kind masters, after all.

Are we not?

Melted souls
The old one grows
The tic and tac beneath my toes
A last regret
These paths forget
That once I had a room to let

Back before
A ****** war
Lovers and poets dreamed for more
A better day
A bed to stay
A gun to keep The Lord away

Before I fought
I often thought
That hopes and dreams could all be sought
But now my goals
All filled with holes
O'Connell street like melting souls

Brewing up fibs and fables to keep the peace,
a narrative soaked in sentiment but armed with deceit.
Infirmity cradles the mind and nestles in the heart,
retaliatory judgements for those who took part.
The eternal absence of a rightful apology,
will breed civil war in your land for centuries.