Auntie they down here making nuggets and shit out of oxtails

they’re just as high as when you left us higher
than that time you told me you had to rub your face
and body with snow to come down offa left hand cigarette
somebody had dipped in that shit and you didn’t know it
you told me you could always tell if something wasn’t natural
by the color and sound it made glowing

in between all your heavenly lists and obligations
as patron saint of chicken wing tips and big jokers
could you please petition that the white folks don’t
grow too fond of smoked neck bones and country style
ribs lest the price of them reaches the hem of your garment
‘cause they don’t make good boosters like they used to
you know the ones that could steal the stank off boo boo
before it hit the commode and you know the meat man
don’t even come around here no more or the bbq man
neither with his truck with the grill on the back of the trailer

now i’m too heaven minded to be a hater
but you know you really fucked the city up
leaving up outta here with so many recipes
even had the nerve to leave without teaching
me to make good gravy but for you
you know all things are forever
forgiven god willing next time i’m home
we bout to party out on Keisha porch
have a few drinks let a little bit of sunlight hit us
and i know you don’t care for the spooky shit
but if we made an altar for you
what should we put on it? a handle of Heaven
Hill? a little Bud Ice? a little souse, with the gristle in it?