He road on a black steed with eyes of fire, the height he road signified the height he aspired. Touched the clouds when he raised his brim, you saw the barrel of his gun right after you saw his grin. Raised by savages, unchained by braves. His momma died with sad eyes of a slave. his daddy lived happy, because he was white. Last thing he needed was a nigga callin him pappy. So he decided to make a profit, sold his boy to the wild, for three fur coats and some herbal weeds, no bigger than a horse pile.
The boy was called a slave, so the whites couldn't claim him, but they raised him as a native; the ways truly changed him. From the bottom of the dirt, rose a red eyed black man, a rifle on shoulder, and tomahawk in hand. He left that old village for a month and setup his own camp. Came back and only found death, not one man woman or cherokee child in good health. But everything was gone, from the herbs to the pelts. In the ground were prints only a white man coulda left.
He buried the braves, and continued on west. His heart grew empty inside of thay wide chest. He filled that black pit with the blood of the whites, slept during the day, traveled the mountains at night.
He rode a black steed dark as his eyes, went days without water, filled his belly with pride. The height he road, signified the height he aspired, back straight, body calm, hands always wired. He still stalks the west looking for the man that killed his last family. Nobody can protect him, not god, his peacekeeper, uncle sammy.
If you hear the sound of a long drawn out whistle, best start running, don't twist that neck. that's the nameless nigga, Cherokee X, commin to collect
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