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Our Natives and The Method of Finishing Them
The Seattle Skyline at Half Past Three. It never meant that much to me. The Seattle Skyline at Six'till Four. I've never wanted so much more.
My slam coaches and judges tell me That I mumble too much   Something about how I speak when I’m on stage I have this almost drawl
Dear non-native, I'm a village girl Surrounded by fried bread, cutting fish and alcohol Family of a million, I don't know who you are But it's okay, you're my cousin
Concrete jungles and, Life without struggles Hunting for cuisine with, Sharpened green Traveling rolling canoes on, Dark gray routes
Born into a place that depicits my race as something bad, as something less than them.  Born into a place that thrives on the white face.  That white is pure and anything of color is a disgrace. 
  There I stood, at the corner of 5th and Broadway, sifting through friends and foe. The friends?
How were we so different from the white man?With copper or white skin.We are all the same on the inside,With a heart, bone, and shin.
Not born here but deserve to be here,
On this November day, I want for my people.I want our voices to be heard,To be appreciated for our history, our present and our future.
The silent song of sorrows played with ease, As her tribal dress swayed along the breeze Her feet dug deep into the earth with every stomp In her native tongue she spoke a vicious taunt,
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