This great America be street vendor, peddling our identity like flea market, haggling our genius to passersby, selling hand-me-down inventions and gently used
designer genetics. Why you keep stealing our blues and calling it a pop song? Convincing the masses you made our pain fashion statements. Our twerk be copywritten,
you get no royalties from our two-step. Our lingo isn’t for sale, so stop plagiarizing our hood-speech, mainstreaming our “broken” English. This America be mass producer
of appropriation, factory full of our features, ripping our packages open searching for damaged goods. This black be authentic. This black be original. This melanated music be off-market. This slang be sold out and never returning to shelves. This dialect be discontinued, this black too high. Out of reach.