I stare at glowing smoke burning by my finger tips.
I haven’t smoked a thing since training singer’s lips.
This jolly man passed a blunt like black Santa Claus
he applauds my freestyle on corruption in the law. There’s only one rule in this circle cypher moment:
we celebrate now together - that’s how we own it.
It's a privilege to be heard by men who have not;
I am not the enemy, since I also combat chaos.
I stare down at this gift of marijuana in the night
the brown paper contrasts how obvious I'm white.
The content of my character rather than my skin
makes me worth a listen among African-Americans.
My heart beat thumps above this concrete street -
I place the blunt in the crease where my lips meet;
then puff without huffing, I pretend to smoke it in…
I hope they don’t see I don't inhale: like Bill Clinton.