I am tired of seeing "battleflags" on
beltbuckles
with Dixie spelt' out in big bold chrome
letters acrost' the top
This is not my South, I do declare!
Among the burnt out dreams
re-let seams
hand-me-downs
of folks done past
are the beliefs
that seem
to counter the idea
that Freedom is meant to last
Lawsy, lawsy, this is not my South
I feel the bloodtorn land
and muddy waters
blending earth and sky
my birthright
the prejudices
people's penury
the hopelessness
my history
There are sharecropper
roots planting my feet
to this land
and a debutante's hand
grasping at diamond
rings
that were me all along
I reckon, my South is my bones
I am the Martin Luther King streets in the 'hoods
the black iron fences
protecting upper class homes
I am the poverty stricken faces
wandering alone
searching always
I am the men and women
tortured in their churches and homes
I am a child of Southern and Northern soldiers
both sides of the battle I own
Only a free South could be my home
To the lights snuffed out way too soon during the Movement.
May they always shine brighter than those hateful beltbuckles
