Skip to main content
Plant your toes in the cool swamp mud.
Step and leave no track.
Hurry, sweating runner!
The hounds are at your back.

No I didn't touch her
White flesh ain't for me.

Hurry! Black boy, hurry!
They'll swing you to a tree.
Rate this poem
Average: 3.7 (9 votes)
Reviews
No reviews yet.