Im retching on the dirt,
Its earthiness coating my throat.
Im wincing on the bitterest pill.
I refuse to swallow.
Im offered the warmth of a velvet gloves,
An iron fist to some.
Im treated like a scab.
A traitor in my kind.
Im hounded by white-right might
That wants the country pure.
Im incensed by those in awe
Of living amongst their own.
Selective perfection will cut their own throats!
Im constantly forcing the point,
But were all retching on dist,
And well choke if we dont spit it out!