Pity the poor policeman
Armed with his gun and his stick,
“Resisted” by some black professor
Who wouldn’t the cop’s buttocks lick.
They say a man’s home is his castle
Except in the U. S. of A.
Where soldiers and cops tap your phone lines,
Suspicious of what you might say.
They bust in without a warrant,
Expecting submission and fear;
And if you don’t grovel and whimper,
They’ll take that as “evidence” clear
That you’ve broken some law or other;
Like living “too good” for your race.
You see, some anonymous neighbor
Would rather you stayed in your place.
Iraqis and Afghans will tell you
Our thugs do the same to them, too.
Then come home and join the police force
Because that is all they can do.
So keep your mouth shut, black professor,
How dare you not pack up and move.
You’re guilty to start with. “They” say so.
Your innocence, you’ll have to prove.
If doubtful, just look in the mirror.
Take note of the color you see.
If not white, then you’ve got a problem:
Best known as the Land of the Free,
Where sentence comes first, then the verdict:
Whatever, whenever; no why.
No habeus corpus for dark folk.
Just vanish, then give up and die.
And don’t you dare call the dumb “stupid.”
It just hurts their feelings, you know;
Which might set them off on a rampage,
Their “virtue” to viciously show.
So don’t you go home, black professor.
You’ve no right to “hide” there inside.
No more than Iraqis or Afghans
Whose rights we have also denied.
No “safe house” for you and those Muslims
Who share the same heathen skin tone.
The fascists in power have warned you:
They’re coming, and you’re all alone.
Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright 2009