The stale stench of racism drips
from his violent fangs. His helpless prey trembles in fear. They troll the
river of damaged dreams with broken nets. Mad as birds they cling to the low-slung
branches of hope.
He
will not tarnish their prospect, nor diminish their desires. For they know he
is a weak vile man solving childish riddles upon his golden throne. He often
gets cold on his moral high ground, and will die alone with hatred in his soul.
Yes, they will
suffer through the summer of no children but like accidental saints they shall
never allow sadness to sweeten her tea. They shall rise above the detest as did
generations past, and life beyond their expectations and flourish in the land
of plenty.
-Johnny V.
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