I'm retching on the dirt, it's earthiness coating my
  throat.
  I'm wincing on the bitterest pill.
  I refuse to swallow.
  I'm offered the warmth of a velvet glove, an iron fist to
  some.
  I'm hounded by white - right might that wants the country
  pure.
  I'm incensed by those in awe of "living amongst their
  own".
  Selective perfection will cut their own throats!
  I'm constantly forcing the point, but we're all retching on
  dirt,
  and we'll choke if we don't spit it out!