They come, but I do not know them,
my kinsmen, my own.

They cannot know me beyond the ghetto,
with them on the one side,
and me on the other.

We put our eyes out to keep from seeing
how much we really are the same.
Bleeding, sobbing, dying—
with still a smile upon our Face.

We say:

No to the Doctor,
Yes to the "okay?" question.
No to the teardrops,
Yes to the smile in the rain.

Our masks are on. Our audience awaits.
The lights are on. The music plays.

So smile, my kinsmen—
say yes, if you must,
to the "okay?" question.