In a time when outspoken
Was said as a cuss,
And being unique meant not standing out,
Friends needed friend
Who would stand their ground,
Who could parry with words
And not let them down.
A small girl stood ready,
No more than a mite,
Who reasoned in ways
Ghetto gangsters could fight.
She knew what was wrong,
And she voiced what was right,
Never to squirm from an onslaught—a fight.
She worked from the kitchen—
Her God given right—
With logic, and baking, and old fashioned spice.
She’d found long ago a battle is turned
When a stomach is fed,

And ceases to yearn.
So men go on fighting,
But there’s wars to be won,
So I’ll be in the kitchen,
Quick blender, quick tongue,
Fighting the way proper fighting is done.