I am beating my silent drum as my soul moans out a faith filled hummmmmmmmm...
trying to send tribal messages by the spirit to my ancestors 
that something has gone terribly wrong in the neo-village. 
The pillage, and the nationwide off key black harmony is harming me and 
disarming of my inner artillery, but inwardly I beat and beat, 
hoping that rhythmic patterns created in soul will permeate through generational curses...
and that the verses in my heart's song will be heard by kings and queens of B.C. times. 
I am like a mime...trapped inside of a black box on September 11 planes and inner city terrains, 
but I keep surviving crashes and surviving tribal lashes and with the fight of Cassius I stand as a man. 
Yet I am shackled in this black genocidal world full of thugs and ghetto killers who slander and steal 
and sell their souls to platinum gods for ice and thrice I bang my drum...
one for the Father....one for Son...and one for the Spirit that is Holy 
and if you hear it Father then show me and speak audibly to my brothers gone astray...
I play polyrhythmic, therapeutic patters on my silent drum  until my hands are numb. 
My fingers are calloused and blistered, as are my feet, 
as I am doing rain dances on these ghetto streets to protect my soles from the hot coals 
and this pot holds my prodigal brother's souls as sacrifices...
as they are lured away by materialistic devices like money, sex and status, 
Navigators and Caddy's; content with being "baby daddy's" instead of fathers 
and it bothers me to see beautiful ebony mothers in search of tribal festivities 
instead of properly raising their daughters. 
These diseased and ignorance infested waters bathes our seed's minds time after time 
and rap line after rap line and I am ringing chimes, doing rudiments on djembes', congas and bongos...
dancing out of my clothes like King David, praying at the top of my lungs 
hoping that somebody in the heavenlies hears the sound of my silent drum and then again
I hummmmmmmmmmmmmmm...Meditating...medicating my ailing with spiritual ointments...
writing millenial Psalms in poetic hieroglyphics instead of adding to the crime rate statistics...
Chanting Bible verses...hoping these tribal curses reverses and transforms into 2002 blessings 
but right now I am stressing as I play my silent drum...
Play my silent drum...
Play my silent drum...
Play my silent drum...
Lord hear the rhythm in my blues as I play my silent drum to You.