I was born by the river
In the shit-stinking tent of a tired sharecropper
The year was 1916
The year reeked of power
Power and stench of trenches and machine-guns over men
Power of white over black
My parents fought out their own personal Southern Somme on pure snow cotton fields and I watched
Watched my parents kicked like curs to the curb
Mewling, whining, drowning in their river, I watched

Half a century later did I have a choice?
When I saw him, King Martin Luther
Blowing down the walls of Jericho
He was Muhammad in Yathrib, yearning for Mecca
Though dying of thirst, he gave us water
Clean water, our water
His insidious dreams invaded my thoughts
I had to fight
Did I have a choice?
No, nor do you

Now, a withered crone poses as me
Her mind stuck in a looping, lingering record
Understand, though, that when I reminisce
I'm only washing you clean of that shit-stinking tent
Their river of vile intent
This is my secret, sacred drop of water