Had an interesting run in yesterday with a greyish, liverspotty, smoking since birth coloured elderly gentleman in London. He called me "coloured" and it inspired the inner poet deep inside me. When I say deep, I mean it never actually existed. It's called: "I am not a colour".
Red, yellow, blue are colours,
Purple, green, and pink are too.
I see colours everywhere,
In food, photos, and dog poo.
Brown, beige, and caramel,
Chocolate, hazelnut, and tar,
Could be the colours of your hair,
Or rum on the shelves of a bar.
I am not in the paint section of home depot,
Or a product on HGTV.
I am not a crayon,
Or the colour of concentrated pee.
Why is a grown man calling me coloured?
He must've missed that lesson in grade 2.
There's no such place as Colouredland,
And it's not 1922.
Someone call Russell Simmons. Def Poetry Jam here I come!