Nothing is more strange than a stranger,
Except those who think me higher.
Like a pedestal of vanity
Made of drift wood and mud:
The accretion is the pivot of anonymity;
thus, your God remains faceless.
Think me higher, regardless of the ball and chain
Around my neck as I'm playing the dozens
With niggas of the lowest quality:
Missing an arm, a leg, or breasts
Like a 1st. generation leper
With a price tag on the leash of a stranger.
©2013 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.