POEMS

“Lesson One” by Nile Lasana and Oman Lasana

Breakbeat Poets Anthology, pg. 294

Son,

i love you,
that’s why I’m telling you this
to protect you
you’re a black boy
i can only give you advice on this
i’m sorry
that I have to tell you about mirandas
instead of reading you bedtime stories.

i’m sorry
i have to read you your rights before goodnight
the police
are supposed to be
our neighborhood watch
zimmerman might have a
badge this time
not the voice
in his head saying that it’s okay to

pull the trigger,

i’m only standing my ground
we watch them as they watch us
caught in a never ending staring contest
pupils with the intensity of your finger on the trigger.

Son,

i’m gonna tell it like it is
your skin
makes you a target
the United States
is a shooting gallery
where targets aren’t
red circles
but black dots

Son
you’re a black dot
my black dot
in this shooting gallery
i have to keep you safe
your hand is just as close to your wallet
as theirs to their holsters

move slowly
arms
handcuffs
holster

they expect you to make a mistake
don’t smile they might think you’re lying
don’t sweat they might think you’re nervous
nervous means guilty
guilty means
cuffs and miranda bedtime stories.

you have the right to remain silent.
now I lay me down to sleep
anything you say can and will be used against you
i pray the lord my soul to keep
you have the right to an attorney
and if I die before I wake
i pray the lord my soul to take

we live in a world
where people who should be protecting us
Take us off the world just as much as they keep us on it
this battle is center stage
Amadou Diallo
41 shots
innocent
Sean Bell
50 shots
innocent
Flint Farmer
16 shots
innocent

black men will always get lynched but they stop using ropes
a long time ago

Oscar Grant
1 shot
innocent
He was supposed to take his daughter to Chuck E Cheese
he was riding the train home
police pulled him and his boys off the train
and put a hole in his back

i wish you still treasured the
1st amendment like you do the second

we reppin Chicago
the center of
a shooting gallery called the United States

revolution in open caskets

i hear too many church bells
for dead bodies

arms
handcuffs
holster
arms
handcuffs
holster

Son, promise me you’ll never have to dance that beat.

 
“America’s Pastime” (After the crimes of our Forefathers) by Jason Carney

Breakbeat Poets Anthology pg. 52

White America –
who we are is not hidden, cumbersome
regret, Evoked from photographs. Motionless.
Grainy black and white movements –
sound of blood,
smell of fire,
fingerprints burned off bodies.

American postcard portraits of lynching.
Hung from trees. Nailed to poles. Strung-up
animals. Hatred has silent fangs, formed to stone.

This is American truth, timeless, inescapable. Justice
never required guilt. Only darkness running down
chipped brick alleyway. Pissing himself like a scared dog,
Froggie James –
beaten and stabbed,
hung and shot,
half his burnt head stuck on
stake,
in a Cairo, Illinois city park.
How many ways we got to kill a man to take his dignity?

What is more vulgar, hooded secret gatherings on back roads
or picnics in town squares?

White families wore Sunday best to the revival of baseball bats,
pristine choir of timely hats, opened-up bellies, fresh-meat
sandwiches.
Dragged from courthouse, just after lunch, Jesse Washington
was a thick black smoke of human flesh as proper children
poked his death with curious stick

Laura Nelson hung from a bridge, next to her fifteen-year-old son,
accused of stealing, they raped her. Gave her salvation
rippling the tips of her toes against clandestine
surface of water. She looks so peaceful escaping
our forefather’s claws.

Mary Turner –
eight months pregnant,
hung upside down,
Split along the gut.
Umbilical chord dangles unwinding backbeat. Mary’s child
made no noise crushed under the heel of boot. It knew not of begging.
Only blistered voices tattered with hat sing
with the lushness bled-out bruise. Georgia backwoods
sweating with the salvation hymnals. You can still hear
those ghosts singing Chariots ain’t so sweet
When you meet them running, dirt roads cold places to die.

These photographs, picture postcards, American portraits –
Lynching. Sounding like gurgles of death. A perverse call
of freedom, shot through the mouth of Memphis.
Dreams deferred is blood wiped on shirt, carried like pilgrimage
To a new distortion. Sounding like gurgles of death. The coldness
of memory, not to be forgotten. We don’t know how many people
died in this land from the hands of racist laughter.

Equality
muffled under our laughter. American right to death
given so freely. From 1840’s negro man –
forced fed coke,
As backs broke,
all day with no pay,
on banks of the mighty Mississippi. To the way crack
Crumbles to stardust under the weight of handgun freedom.

White folks running this drugged up torture.
Not much changing –
two out of the three juveniles sentenced to death
In this land are American children of color.
Not much changing –
one out of five black men on death row, convicted
by all white American Juries.
Not much changing –
if you’re black in Texas you’re five times
more likely to get the death penalty, killing
Person that is white.

Lynch mobs ain’t dead. They have become inalienable
scales of justice. This is American truth –
perverse call of freedom,
Fingerprints burned off bodies,
faint gurgle strapped to
table.

Laughter singing
Not much changing going on around here.

 
“Global Warming Blues” by Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie

Breakbeat Poets Anthology, pg. 104

The ocean had a laugh
when it saw the shore
I said the ocean had a big big laugh
when it saw the shore
it pranced on up the boardwalk
and pummeled my front door

There’s no talking to the water
full of strength and salt
no, there’s no bargaining with water
so full of strength and salt
I’m a mama working two jobs
global warming ain’t my fault

I said Please water, I recycle
got a garden full of greens
I said looka here I compost
got a garden full of greens
water say big men drill and oil spill
we both know what that means

Now my town is just a river
bodies floatin, water’s high
my town is just a river
but i’m too damn mad to cry
seem like for Big Men’s livin
little folks have got to die

seems like for Big Men’s livin
little folk have got to die.

 
“What I Saw was not Your Funeral” by John Rodriguez

Breakbeat Poets Anthology, pg. 99

You cannot be dead.
You cannot be dead.

You cannot be dead, Ronald Reagan,
while the children of the poor still eat.
You cannot be dead while California
cities still have Spanish names.
You cannot be dead while Oliver North
gets his share of conservative shine.

You cannot be dead.
You cannot be dead.

You will not die until the last mother
on welfare must trade blood for milk,
gallon for gallon.
You will not die until the last
lighter sparks the last crackpipe
melting the last of South
America’s finest flake cocaine
(which, when cooked and cut will
be, by way of color, texture and pure
cragginess, your spitting image) into
the most putrescent billow of false,
ephemeral utopia ever known.
You will not die until the U.S.
Strategic Defense Initiative master
builders create their own fully
functional Death Star and history
textbook manufacturers are ordered
to proclaim you a Sith Lord.

You cannot be dead.
You cannot be dead.

You do not deserve a sanctified flag over
a finely constructed pine box, your Nancy,
ever the supporting actor, thrown across
heaving, just saying no, no.
You deserve to be boiled with baking soda,
quartered with razor blades, sealed in glass
jars and sold to the ghetto desperate by vampires
whispering, “Got that Gipp, sun.”
You deserve to die dragged from a rope tied
to the back of a Cadillac driven recklessly
by Freeway RIcky Ross on his long, bumpy
road to redemption.
You deserve to die in a showdown
with Bernhard Goetz and the cops
who raped Tawana Brawley.
You deserve to debate for the fate
of your immortal, invidious soul
against no softer an opponent than
Mumia Abu-Jamal.

You cannot be dead.
You cannot be dead.

But if you are, you deserve to be
reincarnated as a dark-skinned immigrant
boy and forced to survive living in
a United States that remembers
Ronald Reagan and the masks
he wore so well, so long.
You deserve all that, Ronald Reagan,
and a brick of government cheese good
to outlast nuclear armageddon and the short
-term memory of a nation without a conscience.

What I saw was not your funeral, Ronald Reagan.
That was a sham, a hoax,
an award-winning performance.
Bonzo would be so proud.

 
“Declaration” by Tracy K. Smith

He has

sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people

He has plundered our—

ravaged our—

destroyed the lives of our—

taking away our­—

abolishing our most valuable—

and altering fundamentally the Forms of our—

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for
Redress in the most humble terms:

Our repeated

Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury.

We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration
and settlement here.

—taken Captive

on the high Seas

to bear—

 
“Old Ladies and Dope Boys” by Idris Goodwin

Breakbeat Poets Anthology, pg. 157

I.

Behind doors with multiple locks, old ladies sit silent, their GI bill
homes kept from fading by green gardens and fresh paint. They sit
silent, artifact-surrounded, memory thick: skinned knees, rock heads,
uncles, sweaters and aprons floured. Framed photos of Dr. King,
military uniforms, perfect afros, graduation caps, S-curls, Dashikis,
Brooks Brothers and Cross Colours.

Archived on the shelf: Ebony, Essence, Black Enterprise, Jet. The engraved
King James Bible next to the 10th Edition New World Revised Bible
next to the pocket-sized Bible. Some spare in the drawer.

When you come home from Global Visions, they get a ride to the
grocery store across town. The good one. The bus stopped running
here in the 1980s. They cook for you, just you, a fully family meal,
hoping the aroma will lure. Then maybe the leaf can be slid through
the dining room table.

II.

Across the street, the whole family razor blades and triple fades, fitted
caps stooping over triple beams and mayonnaise jars. Baking soda
water boils. Once it hardens, they chop.

Neighbors morph into ghosts, into shreds, while the talented tenth
look ahead like Lot.

III.

Detroit blocks. Old ladies and dope boys stand off on porches,
unafraid. Neither buying what the other is selling.

“Dry Clean” by Paul Tran

my mother works for a dry cleaner in the
white part of town where white people
have green lawns even though California
has no water white people bring my
mother their dirty laundry because white
people have a history of dirty laundry
have a history of bringing brown women
like my mother to this country to wash
the blood from their hands from their
clothes first she marks the soil garment
with the tag the tag has a number and a
color the number identifies the garment
the color indicates the kind of
treatment it gets the way caller always
indicates the kind of treatment we get
the communist regime locks my mother
away for nine years when she escaped
Vietnam in 1980 for nine years she
scrubbed their soiled garments in the
same river where they stoned her sisters
infected each dirty underwear for any
major problem areas you know how colored
scenes are always major problems in
urban areas that’s why the police that’s
why the Food and Drug Administration
recommends you treat them with a
synthetic solvent called tetra fluoro
ethylene tetrafluoroethylene latches on
to the stain and dissolves at the stain
leads onto disposable white sheets like
brown bodies baking in the Sun until
brown mothers like my mother have no
sons or anything to love my mother watch
America kill everything she loved when
it bombed her village of three hundred
eighty eight thousand tons of napalm the
napalm latched onto their skin and
resolved that the living wrap their dead
in a disposable white sheets let them
baking in the Sun while they came to
this beautiful country which continues
to kill their sons and everything they
love that’s why brown women like my
mother practice the art of burial every
day when they lower your clothes down
into a machine to pump
tetrachloroethylene at 1500 gallons per hour
like a machine gun like crossfire like
warning warning warning repeated
exposure to this chemical causes brain
dead winnings repeated exposure to this
chemical causes cancer warning
that’s why my mother still dreams of the
war those dreams of the men who raped
and threw her body into an ocean full of
sharks that’s why she dreams of her
sister’s body cook is cut away by
uterine cancer cut away by breast cancer
that’s why she dreams of the men who
fired a missile at her cousin’s face the
shattered skull his father taking
business Rapinoe from his child skills
and that’s why she treats any surviving
space any surviving memory any surviving
scene in a vacuum
irons its guest bags and plastic
like the plastic body bag she saw taxes
and a bomb gulley pill white like a
blank page like American history like a
white lie like the dirty laundry she
makes clean with her own brown hands or
when my mother gave you back your
clothes which he uh nails herself from
the cross of trauma long enough to
charge you for your murder charge you
for your crimes for all these go
screaming huh bones you better know
America this war you started is not over
America I said this war you started it’s
not over every war you start has its
price America and my mother she’s going
to make you pay

 
“How to get over (for my niggas)” by T’ai Freedom Ford

Breakbeat Poets Anthology, pg. 89

pull up your pants: cripwalk and dance your ass off
the corner coroners got your chalk outline memorized

bullets got they eyes on you du-rag yourself and imagination
imagine a nation afraid of your brilliance remember

your grandma’s resilience her dreams: charred bits
sludged in chicken grease piece yourself back together

get your dreams outta pawn break dawn like babymama
promises remix the lyrics breakdancing on your tongue

and play another slow jam slam dunk your way out
the projects consider yourself post-racial facial hair

and funk don’t make you a man but it might make you
a punk play dead when you body hits the concrete

like kerplunk hip-hop ain’t your savior stop praising
lil’ wayne like jesus – nigga, please:

that fog ain’t the weather it’s the weed bleed
on the sidewalk and call it graffiti warn the youth

with your reckless release police know the sound
of your stereo type don’t believe the hype

your mans and them will snitch if pressed
and your bitch hair is a weave and Ralph Lauren

is a pimp limp your ass back to school nigga
triggers get foolish in your presence remember

that your essence is golden prison is not your birth
tight nor sagging pants your birthmark know
you are the last dragon –
catch bullets with your teeth and glow.

SONGS

“Make America Great Again” by Pussy Riot

What do you want your world to look like?
What do you want it to be?
Do you know that a wall has two sides?
And nobody is free?
Did your mama come from Mexico
Papa come from Palestine
Sneaking all through Syria
Crossing all the border lines

Let other people in
Listen to your women
Stop killing black children
Make America Great Again

Could you imagine a politician
Calling a woman a dog?
Do you wanna stay in the kitchen?
Is that where you belong?
How do you picture the perfect leader
Who do you want him to be
Has he promoted the use of torture and killing families

Let other people in
Listen to your women
Stop killing black children
Make America Great Again
 

“The Lonesome Death of Hattie Caroll Neighbors” by Bob Dylan

William Zanzinger killed poor Hattie Carroll
With a cane that he twirled around his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gatherin’
And the cops was called in and his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody down to the station
And booked William Zanzinger for first-degree murder
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain’t the time for your tears

William Zanzinger, who at twenty-four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy parents who provide and protect him
And high office relations in the politics of Maryland
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And swear words and sneering, and his tongue it was a-snarling
And in a matter of minutes on bail was out walking
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain’t the time for your tears

Hattie Carroll was a maid in the kitchen
She was fifty-one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes and took out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn’t even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
And emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level
Got killed by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed through the air and came down through the room
Doomed and determined to destroy all the gentle
And she never done nothin’ to William Zanzinger
And you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain’t the time for your tears

In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all’s equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain’t pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the cops have chased after and caught ’em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin’ that way without warnin’
And he spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished
And handed out strongly, for penalty and repentance
William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence
Ah, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now’s the time for your tears

 
“Neighbors” by J. Cole

[Intro]
I guess the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope
Okay, the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope
Sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope

[Verse 1]
Yeah, I don’t want no picture with the president
I just wanna talk to the man
Speak for the boys in the bando
And my nigga never walkin’ again
Apologize if I’m harpin’ again
I know these things happen often
But I’m back on the scene
I was lost in a dream as I write this
The team down in Austin
I been buildin’ me a house
Back home in the South, ma
Won’t believe what it’s costin’
And it’s fit for a king, right?
Or a nigga that could sing
And explain all the pain that it cost him
My sixteen should’ve came with a coffin
Fuck the fame and the fortune
Well, maybe not the fortune
But one thing is for sure though
The fame is exhaustin’
That’s why I moved away, I needed privacy
Surrounded by the trees and Ivy League
Students that’s recruited highly
Thinkin’ “You do you and I do me”
Crib has got a big ‘ol back ‘ol yard
My niggas stand outside and pass cigars
Filled with marijuana, laughin’ hard
Thankful that they friend’s a platinum star
In the driveway there’s no rapper cars
Just some shit to get from back and forth
Just some shit to get from back and forth
Welcome to the Sheltuh, this is pure
We’ll help you if you’ve felt too insecure
To be the star you always knew you were
Wait, I think police is at the door

[Chorus]
Okay, the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope
Hm, I guess the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope
The neighbors think I’m—neighbors think I’m—
(Don’t follow me, don’t follow me…)
I think the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope
(Don’t follow me, don’t follow me…)
I guess the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope
Sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope
Well motherfucker, I am

[Verse 2]
Some things you can’t escape:
Death, taxes, and a ra-
-cist society that make
Every nigga feel like a candidate
For a Trayvon kinda fate
Even when your crib sit on a lake
Even when your plaques hang on a wall
Even when the president jam your tape
Took a little break just to annotate
How I feel, damn, it’s late
I can’t sleep cause I’m paranoid
Black in a white man territory
Cops bust in with the army guns
No evidence of the harm we done
Just a couple neighbors that assume we slang
Only time they see us we be on the news, in chains, damn

[Bridge]
Don’t follow me
Don’t follow me
Don’t follow me
Don’t follow me

[Chorus]
Okay, the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope
Hm, I guess the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope
The neighbors think I’m…neighbors think I’m—
(Don’t follow me, don’t follow me…)
I think the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope
(Don’t follow me, don’t follow me…)
I guess the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope
Sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope
Well motherfucker, I am

[Outro]
I am, I am, I am, I am
Well, motherfucker, I am
I think the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope
I am, I am, I am
Well, motherfucker, I am
So much for integration
Don’t know what I was thinkin’
I’m movin’ back to south side
So much for integration
Don’t know what I was thinkin’
I’m movin’ back to south side

 
“If It’s True” from Hadestown

[ORPHEUS]
If it’s true what they say
If there’s nothing to be done
If it’s true then it’s too late
And the girl I love is gone
If it’s true what they say
Is this how the world is?
To be beaten and betrayed and then be told that nothing changes?
It’ll always be like this?
If it’s true what they say
I’ll be on my way

[HERMES]
(spoken)
And the boy turned to go
‘Cause he thought no one could hear
But everybody knows that walls have ears
(sung)
And the workers heard him

[WORKERS]
If it’s true what they say

[HERMES]
With their hammers swinging

[WORKERS]
What’s the purpose of a man?

[HERMES]
And they quit their workin’

[WORKERS]
Just to turn his eyes away?

[HERMES]
When they heard him singing

[WORKERS]
Just to throw up both his hands?

[HERMES]
No hammer swinging

[WORKERS]
What’s the use of his backbone

[HERMES]
No pickaxe ringin’

[WORKERS]
If he never stands upright?

[HERMES]
And they stood and listened

[WORKERS]
If he turns his back on everyone?

[HERMES]
To the poor boy singing

[WORKERS]
That he could’ve stood beside

[ORPHEUS]
If it’s true what they say
I’ll be on my way
But who are they to say what the truth is anyway?
‘Cause the ones who tell the lies are the solemnest to swear
And the ones who load the dice
Always say the toss is fair
And the ones who deal the cards

[WORKERS]
Deal the cards

[ORPHEUS]
Are the ones who take the tricks
With their hands over their hearts
While we play the game they fix
And the ones who speak the words

[WORKERS]
Speak the words

[ORPHEUS]
Always say it is the last
And no answer will be heard
To the question no one asks
So I’m askin’ if it’s true
I’m askin’ me and you
And you
And you
I believe our answer matters more than anything they say

[WORKERS]
We stand and listen

[ORPHEUS]
I believe if there is still a will
Then there is still a way

[WORKERS]
We’re standing with him

[ORPHEUS]
I believe there is a way
I believe in us together
More than anyone alone

[WORKERS]
We’re standing near him

[ORPHEUS]
I believe that with each other, we are stronger than we know

[WORKERS]
We hear him

[ORPHEUS]
I believe we’re stronger than they know
I believe that we are many
I believe that they are few

[WORKERS]
We’re standing

[ORPHEUS]
And it isn’t for the few
To tell the many what is true

[WORKERS]
We understand him

[ORPHEUS]
So I ask you:
If it’s true what they say

[WORKERS]
We’re standing

[ORPHEUS]
I’ll be on my way

[WORKERS]
We’re standing

[ORPHEUS]
Tell me what to do

[WORKERS]
We’re standing

[ORPHEUS]
Is it true?
Is it true what they say?

 
“21st Century Breakdown” by Green Day

[Part I]

[Verse 1]
Born into Nixon, I was raised in hell
A welfare child where the teamsters dwelled
The last one born and the first one to run
My town was blind from refinery sun

[Pre-Chorus]
My generation is zero
I never made it as a working class hero

[Chorus]
21st century breakdown
I once was lost but never was found
I think I’m losing what’s left of my mind
To the 20th century deadline

[Verse 2]
I was made of poison and blood
Condemnation is what I understood
Video games of the tower’s fall
Homeland security could kill us all

[Pre-Chorus]
My generation is zero
I never made it as a working class hero

[Chorus]
21st century breakdown
I once was lost but never was found
I think I’m losing what’s left of my mind
To the 20th century deadline

[Bridge]

[Part II]

[Intro]
We are the class of, the class of ’13
Born in the year of humility
We are the desperate in the decline
Raised by the bastards of 1969

[Verse 1]
My name is no one, the long lost son
Born on the 4th of July
Raised in the era of heroes and cons
That left me for dead or alive
I am a nation, a worker of pride
My debt to the status quo
The scars on my hands are a means to an end
It’s all that I have to show

[Verse 2]
I swallowed my pride and I choked on my faith
I’ve given my heart and my soul
I’ve broken my fingers and lied through my teeth
The pillar of damage control
I’ve been to the edge and I’ve thrown the bouquet
Of flowers left over the grave
I sat in the waiting room wasting my time
And waiting for judgement day

[Bridge]
I praise liberty
“The Freedom to Obey,”
It’s the song that strangles me
Well, don’t cross the line

[Part III]

[Outro]
Oh, dream, America, dream
I can’t even sleep from the light’s early dawn
Oh, scream, America, scream
Believe what you see from heroes and cons

 
“High for hours” by J Cole

[Intro]
This is called being high as shit, for hours
That’s the name of this song, nigga
“High as Shit for Hours”
Here we go, yeah

[Verse 1]
American hypocrisy, oh, let me count the ways
They came here seekin’ freedom
Then they end up ownin’ slaves
Justified it usin’ Christianity which saves
Religion don’t mean shit, there’s too much ego in the way
That’s why ISIS is a crisis
But in reality this country do the same shit
Take a life and call it righteous
Remember when Bin Laden got killed, supposedly?
In a hotel lobby after a show, was noticin’
These white ladies watchin’ CNN, coverin’ the action
They read the headline and then they all started clappin’
As if LeBron had just scored a basket at the buzzer
I stood there for a second
Watched them high-five each other
For real? I thought this was “Thou shalt not kill”
But police still lettin’ off on niggas in the Ville
Claimin’ that he reached for a gun
They really think we dumb and got a death wish
Now somebody’s son is layin’ breathless
When I was a little boy my father lived in Texas
Pulled up in Toyota, drove that bitch like it was Lexus
Put my bag in his trunk and headed off for Dallas
Out there for the summer, feelin’ just like I was Alice
Lost in the Wonderland where niggas still sufferin’
Just like they was back home, and that’s wrong
So now it’s “Fuck the government!”
They see my niggas strugglin’
And they don’t give a fuck at all, and that’s wrong, yeah

[Hook]
The type of shit that make you wanna
The type of shit that make you wanna let go
The type of shit that make you wanna
The type of shit that make you wanna let go

[Verse 2]
I had a convo with the President, I paid to go and see him
Thinkin’ about the things I said I’d say when I would see him
Feelin’ nervous, sittin’ in a room full of white folks
Thinkin’ about the black man plight, think I might choke
Nope, raised my hand and asked a man a question
Does he see the struggle of his brothers in oppression?
And if so, if you got all the power in the clout
As the President, what’s keepin’ you from helpin’ niggas out?
Well, I didn’t say “nigga,” but you catch my drift
He looked me in my eyes and spoke and he was rather swift
He broke the issues down
And showed me he was well-aware
I got the vibe he was sincere and that the brother cared
But dawg, you in the chair, what’s the hold up?
He said, “There’s things that I wanna fix
But you know this shit, nigga: politics.”
Don’t stop fightin’ and don’t stop believin’
You can make the world better
For your kids before you leave it
Change is slow, always has been, always will be
But fuck that, I’ma bust back ’til they kill me
Change is slow, always has been, always will be
But fuck that, I’ma bust back until they kill me—feel me?

[Hook]
The type of shit that make you wanna (Aight, third verse)
The type of shit that make you wanna let go
The type of shit that make you wanna
The type of shit that make you wanna let go

[Verse 3]
Here’s a thought for my revolutionary heart
Take a deeper look at history, it’s there to pick apart
See, the people at the top
They get to do just what they want
‘Til after a while the people at the bottom finally get smart
Then they start to holla “Revolution!”
Tired of livin’ here, destitution
Fuck that lootin’! Can you tell me what’s the best solution?
I used to think it was to overthrow oppressors, see
If we destroy the system, that means we’ll have less of greed
But see, it’s not that simple
I got to thinkin’ about the history of human nature
While this instrumental played
Then I realized somethin’ that made
Me wonder if revolution was really ever the way
Before you trip and throw a fit over these words I say
Think about this shit for a second, you heard the way
The children in abusive households grow up
Knockin’ girlfriends out cold—that’s called a cycle
Abused becomes the abuser and that’s just how life go
So understand
You get the power, but you know what power does to man?
Corruption always leads us to the same shit again
So when you talk ’bout revolution
Dawg, I hear just what you sayin’
What good is takin’ over
When we know what you gon’ do?
The only real revolution happens right inside of you
I said, what good is takin’ over
When we know what you gon’ do?
The only real revolution happens right inside of you, nigga