Such an opportunity, and we give them it,
A chance to be so fine, so virtuous.
We let them feel superior, and special.
Of course there is the proof
Or so they think.
That we are going to pay a price
And they are healthy,
They feel have the right, or do they?
They feel so wonderful,
Telling us that we are wrong.
They are so white and we so black.
Of course, they might be imperfect
But, our guilt dictates our placidity.
The fog in our lungs
Is the reason we give in.
The fat on their bones is a
reason for us to throw stones.
Usually we don’t though, we allow them
Their soapbox. I quit,
I choose to throw rocks
At their glass house
in words and in attitude.
I smoke, so be it.
Live with it.