You know, I thought blues was a weeping soul
A modus of relieving your sadness in motion
of black and white lines imposed through a book, as a precautionary warning
that it ain’t gonna begin to calm all your glands with veracity
There’s a little blue in the brown of me
what I realised at the age of twelve
That the borrowed crucifix ain’t tellin’ me my morals!
Just like when you are burnt at the stake,
all your faith whistles past you, and tells you truth from fake
Does the priest in salient white have up his nostrils, the truth
when he is talking Christ, and Matthew, Mark, Luke and John
all cronies of the literature of Saint Paul
The wistfulness of a lie making up your Holy Communion cake
That the priest had only his broken bread in the bake
Your proxies wrote so much about Jesus, at the behest of Saint Paul
All that glory washed away in the offertory of wine of Pagan blood
And Noah’s Old Testament was stuck in the Flood!
I am not just about to tell you that you are a victim
from the Maronites to the Filippinos
and the Americas all red with the epiphany
even Africa thrown in for good measure
That I feel so blue in my brown-baited skin
to inform you all that we have no clue what is the real original sin!
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