You have pain
We have gain
I white fella
See I got the lingo
got the rhythm
See I do good
want the world to know how bad it was
How good it is to strut those tears
So I declare of myself—I am
young black child from a generation lifted
by light fingers and now returned
home in extrusive elegies—each
streaked with lines of pale horror
and images of white beds
White this White that and if
I put white thoughts into black minds
white images into black eyes
white feelings into black hearts
Isn’t that? what it’s all about
Isn’t that? what it’s always been about
My words stake a claim on your pain
Skilled—I and others like me
mine this rich ore
add a little righteousness
a dash of policy
And at the end of reaction
—a snow-white alloy soft enough
to mould into sorry
A shape to be worn in pride
A work earning its due fee
You have raw pain
we make it pay