I like to be anonymous, a part of the crowd
Hidden in the masses, in the collective shroud.
In some places it’s harder than in others,
Due to the color of the skin, mine and my mother’s.
In Germany, for example, it’s not that hard,
But that doesn’t mean I can let down my guard.
I’m smaller than most by more than a head,
Maybe because they were way better fed,
But this in turn calls for a pair of stilts,
Discreet ones, not showy like kilts.
Something hidden in the legs of the pants
Going all the way down to the hard-working ants.
A piece of wood or metal to be sure
Is all I need for a disguise, a cure.
This, of course, is relatively easy,
But on Mars, for example, it wouldn’t be a breezy.