Issue 30, Summer-Fall 1963
Leaves when she wants, sorry bitch,
Said the white man, presuming to judge.
His mustache hid flakes of the itch,
But his faith, unimpaired, would not budge
Past the image he held, like a crab,
Of his dwindling soul far from home.
This age a man's got to grab.
The old days a bead or a comb
I've kept her at my feet half the night.
He ground rotten teeth and he frowned
As die moon showed clean light on the ground.