His name was George,
and his age was old.
His height was short,
and his head was bald.
He wore long pants,
shorts were not his style.
His shoes were polished,
leather bode him well.
He might have been black,
but he could have been white.
He might have been a crook,
yet he could have been a king.
He looked like a serious man,
he seemed very focused.
What was he doing there,
squatting on your garden lawn?
Knew this not anyone,
nor did anyone care.
Except the brown young man,
with the glint in his eye.
The sweat on his furrow,
dropped onto the thirsty earth.
While stubby gnarly fingers,
pulled at the stubborn weeds.
Slowly and painfully,
did George's hands move.
Slowly and painfully,
was I forced to watch.
Paralyzed did he stand,
the brown young man.
What was I to do,
the brown young man ?
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