by Ernest A Miller
There will always be soulful churning
Shallow oceans swirling over white sands
Hollow bass thumping thru every heart pumping,
A calling none in the same
To stop the killings all should be willing
But to everyone, everything is a game
A wicked game everyday is played, quarters, innings, halfs, periods..
You catch my drift?
As rivers of blood spill across the deserts, the jungles, and glade
Mothers sons stolen
So the calf remains golden
It will remain so until money can't be made while slave kills slave
Author's Note: Hopefully this helps some.
Posted on 06/29/2010
Copyright © 2022 Ernest A Miller