where lima beans grow on brown limbs
where Jims crow and Lynch Still love to mob, every now and then
maybe over Long island tea’s and Starbucks coffee’s made in Colombian fields,
sipping over senate bills and amendments, indentured laws
that see saw over political lines and lint left in pockets of any tinted citizen,
even those with just a streak of tan, where stars and stripes cross over crossbones of young colored people and others who stood against People evil,
Those who warred against the sequels of lethal Human prejudices
those who are still colored people with blue eyed contacts and blond streaks
in the land of cotton,
as the wind blows and the blood on southern soil boils
this seems the only oil that southerners don’t deem royal, this turmoil as they comb the grasslands for produce in communities
in the land of cotton sometimes.