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Southern Born
I was born in the South,
overlooking the hot plains,
Cotton fields and cocaine ports.
Wiping my head soaked in sweat.
Hard to forget the dixie flags
and rifles on display.
Just another day in the South.
Between the deserts and swamps,
and forest trees.
We all trying to breathe.
But its hard,
chemical and refinery plants stacks fill the atmosphere.
Life aint clear,
its smoggy and foggy
with dirty beaches
and fahitas,
barbecue and boudan
smells linger.
Cusswords and prayers
and sirens are the sounds.
Thick chocolate women and yellow hammers
all over
they bounce and turn
from Bentleys to old Novas
Old people on the porch
while the sun scorch
chalk filled concrete
little girls and boys eating cool cups,
and the middleaged walking in daze,
hard to make a way.
Trapped by conditions and positions.
Fat women with hair unkept sliding in flip flops,
while youngsters need pull up they pants
and some crackheads in the apartments
living in hellish compartments
But these are my people
good or evil.
In all this trash
live the diamonds and pearls
with deep thoughts of the world.
Southern born.
We are who we are.
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