A sip of the lungs
A beat a stop
The substance of peter is no longer alive
They say it’s a 3 to 7 for the brain to survive
Contrary to the ichor giving the negro the appearance of dead or alive
But come without a doubt and the seed of a negro is the luxury of the spic and a spout
Sprouting from the outside topside out
Her crown is often subject to doubt
His skin a bullion trial often leaving others to wonder where he got his yellow-brown
But her strength is just as alive giving birth to an amputated child
Perched on a cacao where his skin doesn’t smile
I know why the caged bird sings
It doesn’t preen, it doesn’t fly, it doesn’t play, or keep an eye
It is not a member of you or I
*Just to help you with that first half:
