They try they try handing me guns with bullets,

Because I’m a poet and they are afraid that I unleash these words that I slave.

I try I try getting pens with inks,

Because I’m a poet and I need to unslave these words.

they try they try not making papers,

Because I’m a poet and they are afraid that I unleash these words that I slave.

Oh poor poor me how will I unslave these words.

Oh what they don’t realize about me is the guns are my pans, The bullets are my inks and the papers that they stop making are my enemies.

Oh what they don’t realize is the more they try the more words I get to slave and write on a paper then unleash it to the north.

Oh North don’t worry papers will come and words will be unslave.

Long Live The North