Brown people kissed by the sun,

their eyes like hazel-souls made to run,

they all look like a piece of wood,

brown, hard and good

until they get chopped and trade

differences for traits that fade.

In this side, they say, we can all keep winning

if you just try to fit in.

Coffee is brown but it should be black,

because lately I feel it's my personal gas.

Eating me,

ruining me,

but keeping me going.

If the town doesn't slow down,

I'll stop being their clown,

and my blood will run dry

don't fear; they'll replace it with brown dye.