To those bitches calling themselves praised Queens,
To those native bastards studying overseas,
To those gentle callous heads of a monk,
To those hands that bread us with their good junk'.
To those hands that bread their butter on sweats-
Those bastard son of the grave that love our sweats;
I wish sun shine at moon to see your darkened noon
and expose your beautiful evil beneath the moon.
To those gentle callous head of a monk
Whose bread lies in an attractive pleasant junk;
I wish your eye could see the sun at night
And show you our wailing throats thirsting for light.
To those native bastards studying overseas;
I wish your foot could crush that all could see,
I wish your tail could speak for your fathers
and tell your mother how useless they are mothers.
To those bitches calling themselves praised Queens;
They're like the witches of east end; dirty Queens-
Slaves in the Royal dirty robe like the neat pig
in the celestial dress; your shame is a pick.
To those who think of themselves more than themselves
Your weapons pierce you a-sword by yourselves.
I can fight but I couldn't fight my shrine-
As the wind twine around the waves; so will you twine.
"words from the innocent mind"
Philip Peace