This in the lingo of poor black men working in furniture factories

Hey man, screaming for the bread of life,
shows his mind winding down,
sleigh riding in the deep Virginia snows,
 
Come home at dusk,
frostbite brain,
 
listen to me,
Bonhoeffer, as you preach your last sermon,
 
I think the symphony of river music,
with a simple blood letting,
might be
 
for medics, poets and disc jockeys on the take,
soul rest, soul stop,
 
make me a child again,
before I crash this side rest and dump truck,
 
rap the sap, the ice man cometh, on crack,
juice for another hit, singing,
 
"Why didn't you mind your teacher, Lyndon?"
 
Man, I tell you,
when that factory whistle blows at five o'clock
in the morning,
 
the days gone on forever,
our lips are hard,
our tongue is dry,
 
glue together out front with
asphalt and sewer mustard,
 
we began to die, man,
all over again.
 

Copyright, William "Wild Bill" Taylor, August, 1998