Black man sitting at the station,
Calling out to all the girls that pass,
And selling pride for minimum wage.
You call her like You would call a dog;
You hiss and kiss,
Click fingers, whistle and call out names;
Where is Your pride?
You rise in the early morning,
Leave the woman that lays beside You to search for work,
And You sit,
Day in and day out,
Calling on strange girls with secret places riddled with unknown troubles.
You return home to Your wife,
With nothing for the day,
You lay with her and project Your anger, shame and disease onto her;
Then You roll over and fall asleep.
What example are You setting for future black men?
You are the prototype of a substandard model;
You are not what was promised.
Pride was the goal of freedom;
Pride in who we are and in who we have the capacity to be.
Instead, we have You to lead us forward;
It’s no wonder that young men leave swollen-bellied girls for money and disease;
That the abandoned sons grow up and sit at stations,
Inviting any girl that passes for a moment of brief pleasure,
Just to temporarily soothe the wounds caused by the loss of the Black Man.
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