I’m sorry I’m a stain on your history.
But I didn’t come by choice.
You murder our youth and silence our voice.
I’m sorry that you hate me.
But you don’t know me at all.
I know you think that I’m an ant.
Yet, I stand ten feet tall.
You prance around a flag.
That profited from our misery.
Shoot up our place of gathering.
The same repeated history.
You say it’s southern culture.
I think it’s racist rage.
It’s like blacks are still in chains.
I guess we’ll die a slave.