We Gypsies forged the nails of the cross

We roam to shake the guilt

Wandering fruitlessly searching for lands that we lost

Afore mother Mary cursed what we Pikeys rebuilt

But me dad is a Dago

A full blooded Wop

So I’m wont to fight that which is bigger

I quarrel, intent on the malice of God

Hawking shame for a nip of the ichor

And we wander to shake off our family trails

Biting bullets, aligning our scopes

Till the day comes a’calling, when death is relief

And the mud finally conquers our spokes


This poem is about: 
My family
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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