Oppression Poem by Peter Black

It is contrary to your station
Get on the floor
Slave master is going to chord you
hit you up blood, put your head in a hole,
He will put metal in your bones.

I can suck in the sun,
It makes me hungry and the winds cool my foam.
I have muscles and they can move the earth,
But I got a mouth full of sand and dirt

How much money does it cost to buy life;
Who do I have to own to make myself proud;
When in the crowd I hear a sound,
People shouting to lay down,
"Put your hands out flat, do not make a stand."
So a rich man can put his foot on my back.

That rich man is going to blast you,
Chain you, put you down,
Call you a dog to use you;
Pet you if you purr to his smell.

I have muscles and fists that can swing,
Dig holes through sandblocks, put cracks in the street;
I have words like poison,
Pure passion and intent,
But the winds only listen
And my face is in the sand.