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