They call this the Low Country Fetid swamps mute painful history Whispers flutter in the trees Ancient wounds, still too deep to heal Shadows looming from the past Nothing good here, will ever last
Cracker friggin hates the black Black loathes the Honky- viscerally Generations later, still no light no one is right
People dying: day, night, left and right A lot get shot behind some dope, or dice Poor folks suffer many maladies
Call this Liberty? Are we Free? Or just miserable hordes Groveling for crumbs in perpetual poverty
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