Foreign land impossible.

The creation of the melting pot
a nineteen twenty southern home
my grandmama baking a cake
for the Lords sake
I needed to exit stage right, right?
Called up to fight
Over to a European war of what and because
And I is black not white this cause
cigar smoking in a trench jazz room
not yet invented, instigate, faculty
see a million times, the Hun of time
I cried his name out,
I teared his throat, and shout
vocal
Local, other brothers
scattering in a french trench
gramophone on a scratch
like the one on my cheek
record
drive through the ford
and cross, arms raised
above the head
the rifle, this black cheek
buried
shot.
. . . . .
shot.
and buried
in a white sand on foreign land
unmarked
impossible.