The volunteers come for your prayers
And some souvenirs,
With ivory skin and boycott lessons
Year after year.
Well I'm tracing your face up in the space of the bottom bunk,
Where I cried and I cried,
I knew I was trading on things that I didn't have,
The things that I didn't have.
Now you come to me
With revolution's infidelity,
With blacklisted friends and Tupperware kin,
And your big history.
I memorize the lullabies
Of dwindling lives.
The lay of the land, the touch of each hand
We lose by and by.