by Stefon Napier01 Aug 2013
I want my country
Sticking my knees into roasted dirt the morning after Sunday
Playing dog and kicking up the Mississippi for a jibe
But there's bees on the hill
Roarin lungs over tea, that the land is ruled by their duty.
That skill is not bound,it is not property.
Should ownership exist, the multitudes would have it.
But freedom is a thing rationed, just enough for the tips of tongues.
We waited to dusk for sweet evenings and the sound of drums
But the bees are useless and my knees stung.