I’ll kill the man who stole my baby,
molesting her with skinny fingers
when I’d closed my eyes
in a trance
surrounded by that Congo rhythm;
louder and longer then any tune you tried
to cop off me.
God looks out for chumps
and assholes, The Uncle Toms
snuggling to a coon skin motha,
in the back of a white mans house
learnin’ to play respectable
piano and dreamin
about usin’ my techniques;
thinkin your a pimp and my babies a whore.

Don’t make me call the reverend mother, boy
or the Doctor with all his gris-gris,
go back and tell Lomax how it really happened,
who was down in the park callin the spirits
to dance the syncopated beat.

Some Other Kind Of Index