Even black history month, has been caught up in a organisation of capitalism and is very much drama based, and politically correct, of what was the complete opposite to the call of bob Marley and other legendary black artist's of that time.

The wind in your brads', walking along the sand trodden beach in your plimsolls with holes', with bottle capped jeans', thin, very thin to state, with an old t shirt, worn again and again, with a change twice or three times a week, lasting for years not just the season, where have you all gone, to your shame of capital punishments again and again. Watching your kids', running free...alongside you, not me. And then you install the freedoms in them, but one minute, I heard a shot again.

And with that, you lost your footing, the old road of free from vices'.

And then, a dream again, where the youth went for dinner , sat by the door, had a laugh and a joke, and through the door, through the street, down the road, jumping the fence into the dumpster , while the police took the next route, but one minute, these no guarantee his not going to catch thee.

I'll meet you there, think of me, while you are flying free.

I stayed back to rescue thee.