She was born in a burned-out crack house
In the Bronx
Was predicted to live no longer than a month
Yet She survived, thrived under adversity
And I don’t know what’s worse to me
That She was sold by those who claimed
To love Her
Or that She was stole, pimped out
By the other
Vampyre vulture to the culture
Who’s opposed to- liberation
Perverted, appropriated and sabotaged
The Zulu nation
Daddy was absent- on a permanent vacation
Momma was vexed and always had to work
No good boyfriend- to say the least
Was a jerk
Snuck into Her bedroom when he thought
She wasn’t woke
Tried to tell Momma, but she dismissed it
As a joke
After that She hardly spoke
Unless it was murder She wrote
Ignorance and violence in ciphers spitting fire
Which was required to quench the proletariat desire
Mantras of broken beings, you could say
She was a liar
Talking on things She never had and never known
Casting spells for material things
She longed to own
So She was off to see the Wizard
In the Emerald city
Started bussing it open, shaking Her ass and Her titties
Life on that yellow brick road ain’t nothing pretty
That’s why She always au-saditty, attitude shitty
No time for small talk, She on that nitty gritty
Money’s the only thing that moves
Violence the only thing that proves
Pussy is property, so properly run them jewels
Guns and microphones are the craftsman’s tools
Ain’t got no time for the broke or the woke- consider them fools
