White Blackmen in Ireland
I see them, from backgrounds tough
Approach me on the street
And I am wary, as close enough
They are to me when I meet
These striding, strutting chancers rough
I with grim face meet…
Do the blacks in Alabama or elsewhere
With people like me endure
Who through them with superior stare
Look down on others impure
As if they were not there
Or wished it so, of that they’re sure?
How can a white man is his own land
By his fellow man be seen in such a way
That those of his own race, his presence cannot stand
For he too knows fear, and joy, and how to pray
But fear is what we must understand
Is what makes the world this way.
He looks dodgy… he might stab and rob
Is the thoughts in the mind
Of those with gum in the gob
Who a way to avoid try to find
And the fact they are the snob
Is something to which they are blind.
But empathy and humanity
Are luxuries of those far away
From living where these people be
Talking and threatening, day to day
By their stance and look, and cannot see
The rich too are made from clay.