When you see the collier’s son abroad,
With his pigment like your heart
Pardon, pardon, sir!
Do not show him, the gun.
Do not let him know
That both skins are different potteries of one God,
Just tell him;
Both are also the fetuses of mid winter’s joy
Else he may abhor his pride.
When you see the collier’s son abroad
Do not be too witty on him
Else you’ll become a fool.
You may give him the shovel for vain labor
Aftermath if he’s still stronger than you,
Do not keep him as gold
Neither should you tell him to come home
Just say to him;
Afro boy ―your footprints have gathered flames.
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