Rostrum Rhetoric
Malcolm died for the 83rd time at the corner of lenox
120th the child to jump over carcass held bullet in ballad,
to secure for him his piece of this dark continent
a horseshoe at best he swings his arms and aims iron
poor John Henry, for even he was not built to last,
stop singing you cordillera negroes,
for even in sleep I can hear your 24 hour bones,
the slurred fast dialect that lost trombone player
we have cut out the white man from bandstand
they are scared shitless or emulating your slingin’ corn
STOP SINGING AND START SWINGING
Chained, again, singin’ of barracks in Huntsville
The pulpit greets the well do to off hand black man
You can wager you have no ancestral heritage
Malcolm would curse his bondage in Moslem hairdress
This race is not for that of grandeur of right
Wrongs, the other guy, I happily apply makeup in morning
Come out white in my Mexican automobile covered in shirts,
Shoes, the littered trail of my identity from here down black,
From my can wetback, from my arms red husker treatise
I’d like to amble a small peach crate, take it down from pole
Stand high
And claim no game
But a feeling that has hindered our movement, us, this nigger
We can carve out a piece
They do not like the ilk of us anyways
And seize good fortune, not lazy attrition through sin and prostitution,
Whittled down drugs and cursing the gods that urge us good nature
For I am of this ilk on pavement
I am transparent from my heritage
I see the people fucking us, they confide in me (as I take it)
They think I’m handsome sterile eunuch hooking up wires for their connectivity
Connect to the greater omen that heralds us animals
To open up our wide mouth teethed not for greasy chunk profit
But for greasy chunk of white haunch,
Sickly fat wings carved out of one man making 200,000 roses
We gnaw of his wealth, wear his head as cap,
To insure where your ferocious color
Will horrify shit out of the old men in stalls
To overwhelm a police force, and govern
A small strip of paradise found
sit back on porch and talk about that great day
Where we could relax again and not bothered
By Punjab, sandnigger, fucking cunt, nobody
And sing that
Malcolm died for the 83rd time at the corner of lenox
120th the child to jump over carcass held bullet in ballad,
to secure for him his piece of this dark continent
a horseshoe at best he swings his arms and aims iron
poor John Henry, for even he was not built to last,
stop singing you cordillera negroes,
for even in sleep I can hear your 24 hour bones,
the slurred fast dialect that lost trombone player
we have cut out the white man from bandstand
they are scared shitless or emulating your slingin’ corn
STOP SINGING AND START SWINGING
Chained, again, singin’ of barracks in Huntsville
The pulpit greets the well do to off hand black man
You can wager you have no ancestral heritage
Malcolm would curse his bondage in Moslem hairdress
This race is not for that of grandeur of right
Wrongs, the other guy, I happily apply makeup in morning
Come out white in my Mexican automobile covered in shirts,
Shoes, the littered trail of my identity from here down black,
From my can wetback, from my arms red husker treatise
I’d like to amble a small peach crate, take it down from pole
Stand high
And claim no game
But a feeling that has hindered our movement, us, this nigger
We can carve out a piece
They do not like the ilk of us anyways
And seize good fortune, not lazy attrition through sin and prostitution,
Whittled down drugs and cursing the gods that urge us good nature
For I am of this ilk on pavement
I am transparent from my heritage
I see the people fucking us, they confide in me (as I take it)
They think I’m handsome sterile eunuch hooking up wires for their connectivity
Connect to the greater omen that heralds us animals
To open up our wide mouth teethed not for greasy chunk profit
But for greasy chunk of white haunch,
Sickly fat wings carved out of one man making 200,000 roses
We gnaw of his wealth, wear his head as cap,
To insure where your ferocious color
Will horrify shit out of the old men in stalls
To overwhelm a police force, and govern
A small strip of paradise found
sit back on porch and talk about that great day
Where we could relax again and not bothered
By Punjab, sandnigger, fucking cunt, nobody
And sing that
