Low Country

Reflections on life in the South, lamenting on failures

Low Country

They call this the Low Country
Fetid swamps mute painful history
Whispers flutter in the trees

Ancient wounds, still too deep to heal
Shadows looming from the past
Nothing good here, will ever last

Cracker friggin hates the black
Black loathes the Honky- viscerally
Generations later, still no light
no one is right

People dying: day, night, left and right
A lot get shot behind some dope, or dice
Poor folks suffer many maladies

Call this Liberty? Are we Free?
Or just miserable hordes
Groveling for crumbs in perpetual poverty