Capitalism And The Ghetto Poem by James McLain

Living in poverty men learn to die.
In the hot southern sun,
black children wither like grapes
on the vine.

Most live without any real dream's.
White law enforcement officers
line up the men
against the red crumbling five
and ten cent store walls.

Old faded poster signs haphazardly
speak of better days gone long since past.
While further up north,
in the white side of town, I hear
them speak about killing all
the niggers,
eating donuts at Krispy Kreme.

If we could get away with it like they
do elsewhere quietly buried under each other,
and no more heard about.
One muttered that the pit no matter how
wide or deep would never be deep enough and
their flesh under the clay,
like newly planted seedlings of old time's past.

And the world would think nothing more of it and
the white jury
would nullify their murder charges
by forgiving them
of their own past transgressions.
And as a reporter,
these are some of my most least desirable job's.