friends, neighbors, countrymenlend me your eardrumsthis is the story of my fathermay his life be longpart onemy father is a street boynever had shitgrew up in voodolandwill put a hex on youthirty-six siblings because his fatherliked to spread his seed. this is what farmers doremember, my father is the son of a farmerso he learned to spread his seed toowas seven when Ghana freed herselfblack star shines foreverread by candlelight to learn the white man's gamethey call it capitalismyou have to winand if you losethey will call it third worldbut we call it homestreet boy grewhis hustle did too. all he knows is hustlerode train to Liberiagot a little bit of moneygold chains to show he's got itall gold everything because the streetsneed to see him shinestreet boy is a motherless childmeets girl who is the ghost of his motherthis will be the only time he rememberswhat love looks likehe will love no otherexcept the streetscause you can't take the street out the boyno matter how well he learns to play the gamewill dodge rebel bulletsdon't give a damn about your street gangsyour bloods or your cripsall his friends died with their throats slithe will follow the trail of their blood to americathey will call him refugee because the land he came fromcracked open and tried to swallow him wholebut he came up from the cracksand the prayer of the street boy is,"G-d, don't ever let me go back"so he hustledbrought his girl to foreign landher belly swollen with childLady Liberty looked upon them and said"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddle masses,unless it is black, unless you call it African,there is no freedom here for you."