- Said the Confederate
flag to the American flag.
Well now, here I am.
The prodigal son returns
rearin his ugly colors again,
like it's 1861 again,
like there's blood 
in the dirt again
and soldiers marching 
down the road
like it's my goddamn birthday.
I know you don't like to
think of me much old man,
like to pretend I ain't
flying the same height as you,
on the back of this
well-meaning Southern boys
truck, back turned on me
like I'm just some raggedy
piece of cloth that got buried
with all them bodies at
Gettysburg and Palomino Ranch,
like you ain't just another
raggedy piece of cloth like me.
It's amazing what people
will do to a piece of cloth,
when you wipe up 
enough blood with it.
How they worship it, panic every
time it touches the ground
or burns or start prayers
and rituals to it.
Hell, they even die 
for it, kill for it,
a sacrifice to their cloth God, 
the American golden calf.
And you forget that we
are the same colors.
We are red,
but especially red.
And we are white, 
but especially white
and we are blue, 
but especially blue,
like all them people 
we choked out
and the music they made
while we was doing it.
The only difference 
between you and me
is I'm just small part 
of what you are,
fraction of you.
You like to forget that.
You like to forget a lot 
of things, don't you?
Remind everyone
who ended slavery
while stepping on my neck,
but never once reminded
them who brought it here.
Old man, you forget 
where the cotton
we are made out of 
even came from,
and you telling them
you represent freedom.
But did you tell all them
Japanese folk you locked up?
Were you singing
"This land is your land,"
when you prodded 
them Cherokees off it,
corpse by corpse.
You telling all them people
you injected into prison
about that free country.
Maybe they ought to call 
you the stars and bars
or just the bars and bars.
You know,
they was quick to find me
on that racist shooter's belt buckle,
but which one of us was so
down to Darren Wilson's arm?
Which one of us was on the sleeve 
that formed a choke hold?
Which one of us is 
painted on the side
of them Baltimore police cars?
Which one of us stood 
behind the judge
and watched Zimmerman 
get acquitted?
Which one of us is 
painted on the box
the goddamn bullets come in?
Cause it ain't me.
Nah, it ain't me.
Or maybe it was me.
That small part of you that fell
into the dirt and got my face
only 200 years ago.
You know,
at dusk, if the 
light hits you just right,
and the wind is blowing fast
enough, we almost look the same,
and you can tell 
where I came from.
