Out of their need to belong
They demand nothing of themselves.
Those forty-ounce drinking misguided black kings do not even know
Their own beauty.
They search for meaning in tangled vines of ancient weeds,
Crack-stone, crystal pebbles
And pea-tasting liquor
That makes their eyes water
With luxuriant tears,
Cutting off their child-bearing seeds in the richness of their
Youthful years.
Never thinking of the generations of black princes who will never know
How great black royalty really is.
The hope of a generation flushed away in a moment,
Floating downstream.