Unchosen

For West Africa, because your pain is mine.

Our pigment is black,
Yes, we mourn the death,
Of simple emotions we lack

They say we were covered with hairs,
Swinging across jungle cities,
With tree limbs as chairs

We shed crocodile tears,
Over values we lost,
During our chocolate years

Now, miners of greasy barrels,
As toy soldiers, we serve,
Self-made kings, in soiled apparels

Forever trapped in poverty's past,
Possessors of no tommorow,
Awaiting kingdom come, at last.