HAT ON HIS HEAD...

Hat on his head, rings on all his fingers,
My brother, Africa's lost son,
Pimps his sisters and mine
In order to buy fancy cars--
Fancy cars that could neither take him
To a promised land nor bring him back
To his senses.
Hat on his head, my brother runs around
Looking for "grass" or just stands
By a street corner, outside a bar or a store,
And importunes semi-nude demi-gods
To give him their milkless tits
Or their unloadable ass.
If he succeeds, that will be the topic
Of his conversations for days
But if he doesn't he will find something else
To brag about. Or he will only talk
About how much money he spends
On his hair -- to get it "conked,"
While those who have deflowered the moon
And are now courting the stars
Are silent; while I, afraid to ask, just wonder
What he thinks his head is for.

WHO IS TO BLAME...

Who is to blame
when a not-too-intelligent,,
Lonely, little girl
Duplicates herself
To make her own pal?

Who is to blame
When a poor, nestless bird
Decides to own at least a child?
And...
What is to be done
When a semi-mature freshman
In college,
Diploma in belly,
Demands marriage?
Who is to stop her
From treating her son
And daughter
Like blank tablets
For the engraving of
Childish commandments?