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It is the thickest blood on this planet |
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The feet, that slip and slide in spilled lakes of black blood |
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On back roads marked with rusted dead end signs |
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They don't fit into any shoes |
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Not Nike's, and not Reebok's, though they |
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Make em across the sea and sell em to you and me |
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For fifty times their value *tch* none of them can hold the blood |
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That coagulated not so long ago, in the lower extremities |
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Of off-color corpses, strung up from trees |
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Like, drying figs or, hanging poupourri, to |
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Sweeten scenes of Southern gallantry |
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Before cushioned insoles and arch supports |
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There were feet that sank in rusted chains, and uhh |
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Backs that cracked beneath the weight of slave names |
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Like Jones, Smith, Johnson, Williams, or even Hilfiger |
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And black butts that bore marks forever from irons |
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That preceded those for pressing and curling naps |
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Yanked straight, before relaxers weaves and pink lotion |
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[British accent] |
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Branding irons children, now that you've crossed the ocean right |
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Step up here lit-tle nigger on the auction block and open up your mouth |
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Right, good strong teeth, good muscle tone |
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You oughta pick a ton of cotton, must be worth ten dollars maybe more |
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See here ladies and gentlemen how much can I get for this here |
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Barely used, top of the line... |
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[American accent returns] |
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Fast forward to Calvin Klein |
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And modern ownership tags for black behinds, courtesy of Ralph Lauren |
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A.K.A. low, low, well how low can you go? |
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Call on black consumers if you want the cash flow |
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Cause they quick to flip and spend up all they dough |
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And don't front money, act like you know |
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We give it up to the Brook-lyn malls |
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We give it up to the Uptown malls |
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Cause the white folks figure ain't no question for a nigga |
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That material posessions can answer |
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Keep us preoccupied from what we read or what we drive |
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While our mothers are dying of cancer |
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We tuck our low self esteem in Euro-trash jeans |
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Some overpriced shit from Donna Karan |
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As we toast with Hennesey to covert white supremacy |
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Hiding the thickest blood on the planet |
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We wearing it under our clothes, the way God dressed our souls |
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But, check how the proud blood flow through 1996 |
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Adding fuel to the flames of some bullshit brand names |
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Cause we couldn't see past the next pair of fat kicks |
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It is the thickest blood on this planet |
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The blood that, sprays and spills in buckets |
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Soaks and stains the nightly news, but fuck it |
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A colored life still ain't worth but a few ducats |
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That blood can't be contained by any mind that cannot see a |
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Great black forest for all these cracker trees |
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I'm talkin about Afro-Madonna, and child, and child |
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And child, and child, and whoops, there goes another one |
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And momma don't know the answer so baby gots to Guess |
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Oh say young blood, you wanna tell me |
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What George Marciano, ever did for a negro? Boricua, chicano |
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Brothers and sisters their pockets like blood blisters |
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Ready to pop, ooze, and drop cash so hot and so fast |
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It makes a spark |
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"Yeah mami cause now I got my upside down triangle |
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My designer question mark" |
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OH WHY ASK WHY that shit don't make you complete |
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It's vanilla concealer for your chocolate heartbeat |
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Pumping the, thickest blood on this planet |
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While we take it for granted that, more Selma churches won't be bombed |
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More bullet riddled bodies won't be embalmed |
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Another cop won't, commit murder turn around and get a raise |
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While we pickin over the racks from white owned Doctor J's |
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To Modell's, Macy's, and Sach's |
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Shit they just think we ain't never gon' change our ways |
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And finally answer back: |
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"No suh, Ise don't want to wear yo' britches |
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No suh, Ise don't want to grant yo' wishes |
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That all us negroes.." .. shall continue to hide, in your shoes |
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And your clothes, as if we should take pride |
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In your savage traditions, in genocide |
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All the spirits you extinguished and never batted one blue eye |
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Yet your vulture's on our culture like white on brown rice |
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Bleach our blood and sell it back, special price |
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On this blood that races through the African veins of the child |
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On his way to the mall, in White Plains |
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To catch a confused, lost, land-stealing Columbus Day sale |
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On a Fila jogging suit, for his brother in jail |
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That blood, is your blood, it's my blood, it's our blood |
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It's the, thickest blood on this planet |
