I am that child—Papa’s child.
With no home—Papa’s good as dead.
On bare feet—the only shoes I know,
And bare back—Mama’s gift of clothes.
When I play the child—I’m naughty.
When I don’t play—I’m too dull.
They just police me—everywhere.
My body can smell the cane—and the street.
I fend for myself—So I can shout!
I tread on them—that’s the big boy.
They tread on me—that’s the small boy.
Whoever cares if I’m pitched—or impeached?
Your sun did shine—as a child
And made you a star—for listing stars
I must step out—to stand in the sun
And I will shine—to light up my base.
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