You Cross Me I Wanna See Blood
Deal’s a deal. Cross me, I wanna see blood.
I can do some tricks to make you pee blood.
Cut crescent from star, cut Jesus from cross.
In the street, dogs lap up amputee blood.
Cross a line in the sand, a Kurd might say
you’re toast, a party to killing-spree blood.
Double-crossed again, Miniconjou and
Hunkpapa Sioux donate Wounded Knee blood.
Yellow Bird. Black Coyote. Big Foot. If you
come across a Ghost Dance, better flee blood.
No draft. Poor’s cross to bear. We’ve heard this song
before: not a drop of bourgeoisie blood.
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth, strange
fruit hangs. Can’t cross out our poplar tree blood.
Crows to pluck, rain to gather, wind to suck,
sun to rot, tree to drop. There will be blood.