Bees on the Hill

I want my country

Sticking my knees into roasted dirt the morning after Sunday 

Playing dog and kicking up the Mississippi for a jibe

But there's bees on the hill

Roarin lungs over tea, that the land is ruled by their duty.

 

That skill is not bound,it is not property.

Should ownership exist, the multitudes would have it.

But freedom is a thing rationed, just enough for the tips of tongues.

We waited to dusk for sweet evenings and the sound of drums

But the bees are useless and my knees stung.