I Wish Naught But Death
'Twas a thought cross'd the mind of a man who paints red.
And 'twas spake by the baker who eats too much bread.
'Twas spilt from the mouth of a baby gone rotten,
Whose pitiful mum would not wrap her in cotton.
Dark, contemptuous eyes shoot the slur in the slums,
At men who love packages packaged with guns.
Cry, "I wish naught but death, may it come to me swift!"
"May I curse these black heavens, return thy cruel gift!"
"Fie upon family and freedom and faith!"
"It is only in darkness we're finally safe."