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I'm an African, not just by my ebony skin.
Nor by the look in my eyes or fear on my face.

My heart is tattooed with the marks of our tradition and my tongue is dipped in the Brew of parables.
My mythology is one of controversies and rolling skulls.

I'm an African,not because I read one myth about us.
But because I tasted the waters of our land,and it tasted like nature,in its natural form.

I know I'm an African, because my hair has specks of wisdom.
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There often is found, in many little towns,  
A place where old-timers still gather around.  
Not only old-timers, but “youngsters”, as well,  
Especially on Sundays, they “stay for a spell.”

Some would argue, and say to you,  
It is because there is nothing else to do.  
This may satisfy a question in their mind,  
I think, however, another reason, you will find.  

It is here that folks have gathered, for years,  
To sing, to worship, even shed a few tears.  
It is here they sometimes bury their dead,  
It is here they consistently hear the Word read.  

It is at this place, though rare to find,  
People find solace and peace of mind.  
It is here that the Bible is still believed,  

And its message is, without doubt, received.
The preacher may be “country” and not well learned,  
But a place of respect, he most surely has earned.  
You see, his sermons are not “watered down”  
To satisfy the modern, politically-correct clown.  

The music is still in agreement with the Word,  
Never is the loud, night-club sound heard.  
Yes, folks are “old fashioned” and “set in their ways”  
In a few of these churches from by-gone days.  

People still dress with respect and decency,  
They are not caught up in the “come-as-you-are” frenzy.  
The user-friendly atmosphere, that once was unknown,  
Gives the modern church-goer, a relaxed tone.

To these little churches let us, with haste, return,  
And the compulsion to "moderness", obediently spurn.  
It is back to Bethel that we ought to go,  
Where the “old-time religion” is still more than show.

— The End —