Honkies always talking ’bout
Black Folks
Walking down the streets
Talking to themselves (They say we’re high—
or crazy)
But recent events have shown
We know who we’re talking
to
That little microphone
In our teeth
Between our thighs
Or anyplace
That may have needed
Medical attention
Recently
My mail has been stopped
And every morning
When I awake
I speak to
Lessy-in-the-wall
Who bangs behind
My whole Rap
This is a crazy country
They use terms like
Psychosis and paranoid
With us
But we can’t be Black
And not be crazy
How the hell would anyone feel
With a mechanical dick
in his ass
lightening the way
for whitey
And we’re supposed to jack off
behind it
Well I’m pissed
off
They ain’t getting
Inside
My bang
or
My brain
I’m into my Black Thing
And it’s filling all
My empty spots
Sorry ’bout that,
Miss Hoover