The slaves Dontre Hamilton met

I didn’t shed a tear the day you killed me in Milwaukee
But I was mad at you
The doctors said I was mad
But you said I was bad
Too bad I never got a cup of Starbucks coffee
Good lord there is no Starbucks in heaven
All I see around me are evergreen plantations of long-lasting regrets
All I see here are fields of gold that can’t be sold. And shiny black silhouettes of African-American souls
Souls that are slaves to the ghettos of their suppressed minds. Souls that are slaves of the black urban jungle Uncle Sam made
I met Tanisha Andersen
You have met Tanisha
She misses Cleveland. She misses her mama
And she is mad at you
The doctors said she was mad too
But you said she was bad
Her head still hurts
Her mind still aches
You banged the loving life out of her head
And squeezed the last breath out of her beautiful earthly soul
All I see in Tanisha now is a broken shell of a fragile African woman
A troubled soul broken by the shackles of federal hate
Bipolar disorder is no condition for a black woman you say?
I met Walter Scott in this heavenly ghetto
You know Walter?
His ship landed in the dead of the night as usual
The fatal gunshot you fired that day pierced his spine
And shattered his celestial faith into sharp fragments of stinging pain
Run nigga run they sang in 1851
We sing Change Gonna Come in this ghetto
We sing Strange Fruit in this ghetto
We wander aimlessly in the heavenly plantations of the African spiritual afterlife
We struggle to pacify the restless spirits of African queens
We struggle to pacify the spirits of slaves lost at sea
We struggle to understand the sins of the colour of our skins
Heaven is full of the Tanishas and Dontres.