I Was Raised By A Colored Maid

Gone I once was with the wind in the South back to a time when then as a child I once was, here where we lived time stood still. Butter milk and moist cornpone was never less always more than a word home made grits. Ox tails, green collards, fresh squeezed lime, potatoes mashed, pecan pie, butter and biscuits, ice tea. Before it was to late U.S. children could never understand it, all the dark white hate, directed by them to our colored mothers their maids whom brought more than sweet syrup to our plates. The railroad tracks were where we were warned of before we became mirrored images of our parents. A tad east and a bit west a little ways north, just a stones throw some ways off to the south of were all of the wooden homes that we lived in. Important men with well worn heals without respect for decent folks, the ones whom could not back then vote. Knowing if they could twould vote mostly Democrat. We were always curious about how they could deny respect to U.S. and give nothing to the other and stir up such hate? Now it is fifty years latter she they and them have lived for over one hundred years in the same home they come from the Church and give U.S. a ride to vote inside of the van we can't help but to speak about how we once lived in one district represented by a community member and how some old white man with white hair gets on T.V. and says he is for U.S.. Most of U.S. have at least one family member in some back woods hidden Prison he holds stock in.