Napalm death – Retching on the dirt

I`m retching on the dirt, it`s earthiness coating my throat.I`m wincing on the bitterest pill.I refuse to swallow.I`m offered the warmth of a velvet glove, an iron fist to some.I`m hounded by white – right might that wants the country pure.I`m incensed by those in awe of @living amongst their own@.

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