Before abandoning the name 

their masters gave your fathers

you were just some colored kid,

segregated and sanctified

in the Church of Hallelujahs,

holding your own on streets

where Cassius Clay was what

they called you, stamped

and seared by a slaver's brand.

 

The voice of conscience

was Emmet Till, the imaginary

twin whose date of birth

obsessed you, his features 

lying like bruised fruit

in the bigots' torchlight –

an omen for the uppity.

 

For you outraged them too

with your lip and fancy footwork,

your Five Pillars of Islam.

Turning up the heat with verses

you out-rhymed no-hopers.