The faithful tell me I don't belong here.
Maybe they're right.
They look at me with fear
Because I like to pick fights
With my insistence
To stay where I was born.
They see resistance
In the way I say "foreign".
On a foreign tongue,
One syllable is acceptable.
On the mother's tongue,
Reprehensible.
Maybe they're right.
Maybe I should move next door.
Maybe I should stay with the wife-beaters they fight,
Living just down the road.
Then I'll learn what I owe
To the faithful and to their code.
I should go away,
To where I can safely die
Without contaminating the bunch.
One less rotten apple to crush,
One less blindfold to tie.
I cannot change;
They do not convert
What they don't want to buy.
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