GENOCIDE

Her creamy white skinny hand.
Twirled around, molded tightly
Into Papa's pudgy mahogany fingers
His rippling laughter pulsated
Slithered into her juvenile veins
As she levitated, swayed back/forth
To dancing pebbles that rolled
In Papa's mouth.
He sensed her greedy hunger
As they neared the ice cream store
Bouncing eagerly they step inside
She closes her ears tight
Drowning out the white man's words
They don't serve drunken Indians
Gonna call the police
Whose white kid did you steal
Pebbles lay crushed in Papa's jaw
Turning him to stone
Until her cries of I love you Papa
Rekindles his flame.