Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Black Future, artist - Akua Naru. Date of issue: 26.04.2018
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Black Future |
| For gods and mortal men |
| Women, children, niggas, bitches, and distant kin |
| Jehovah witnessed him, door knock for immigrants |
| Plymouth Rock layin' pillagin' |
| Manhunt for the blood of the Rankine 'Citizen' |
| Been held, caught, still bought, from Earth to Mae Jemison |
| Orbit out of order, foreign daughters esteemed lineage |
| Sun, stars, Venus, Mars, Morse codes written in my North node |
| 'Cross the moon, longitude ecliptic shit |
| Journey been the flame, canary cage, long sentences |
| Feet weary, the pain of war between me and my bitterness |
| Still in line with picket signs, the fast cars, the picket fence |
| Wilson pickin' at your number nine, pickin' cotton off the find |
| Because the fro flat on the one side |
| Learn to laugh so you don’t cry, a spell cast with closed eyes |
| When the math never add up, a dollar surely hard to come by |
| Ugh, my goodness, ugh |
| For the billy bad-ass brother, outcast, the tough guy |
| For color girls when they’re able to know at sunshine |
| The chip on your shoulder for dues and tongue-tied |
| For broke, ailin', hopeless, magnum opus, stunning |
| For those the skin black, it’s pointed late in the night sky |
| A lunar eclipse, a grimace, glimpse the world shift, a sunrise |
| An ancient future rich between hips, thighs |
| Take this dandelion, go make a wish for the old pie |
| Fuck the slice shit, the piece of cake, pecan praline spikes |
| Casket, 99s, my cousin got life for three strikes |
| Since twelve been in the system, sixteen bars of heat like |
| That twenty-one is gon' make me run like kids before the streetlight |
| Colt .45, call me baby girl, try to maintain, find peace, right? |
| Man’s world, any place for a nigga like me, it seems like |
| We’ll freeze like, it’s a state of mind, not a state of mine, for me and like |
| Hello? |
| Junior? |
| Junior? |
| (Black fu—) |
| Junior? |
| H-hello? |
| (Fu-fu-fu-fu, bl-bl-bla-black fut—) |
| (Black future) |
| Hello? |
| Uh, my British friends call me wicked, either I’m evil or lit with it |
| Funkiest George Clinton, fruit punch locks, fresh twisted |
| Giovanni eagle trip, double dutch skippin' |
| Ride flow so intense, you need PornHub to fuck with it |
| So ever get my nose stuck, I smell gods shittin' |
| Squat on that Farrakhan, Solange, Chimamanda, Tricia |
| My minimum be common sense to a go-getter |
| Gold diggers dig my prose and pose for the old picture |
| Third inscription, Rosetta Stone, so go figure |
| Spend a lifetime tryin' to get free like Denise Williams |
| Dead pressed, bike ride in the breeze, chillin' |
| For my people, I go off Benita over Miss Jenkins |
| The counterfeit disappear soon as the cold hit 'em |
| Bomb the geniuses I clone, time signature goal-tendin' |
| Rosetta Tharpe finger pick, harmonic note bendin' |
| Train bound for glory, folklore absolved the coke dealer |
| For saints sendin' singers off key and on Tinder |
| Freddie Mercury retrograde, too real for great pretenders |
| For dream defenders, sister soldier, winters colder |
| we were young, dumb, innocent and loved once |
| Do you remember? |
| Do I remember? |
| (Black, black, black fu—fut-t-t-t—) |
| (Black future) |
| Uh, uh, may I forever be a menace to my enemies |
| Pray the death be nothin' less than the final scene of Misery, uh |
| Last laugh terrorist, the broadcast, the chariot |
| Two sphinxes, my right hand breedin' valerian |
| Keep my fist balled till one of you wanna touch my hair again |
| American, yard call for soft candidates |
| For Alex, Kizzy, Fiddler, Chicken George, Kunta the Gambian |
| For refuse sought that brought Nina Simone to Liberia |
| For Good Samaritans that to bury them |
| The racketeer that stole years, shoulda, coulda, the terrier |
| Malformed, the black limbs limp, the posterior |
| Forever could make your heart here, we feel when you were here with us |
| Uh |
| For those church shoes and wooden pews, the breeze in the vestibule |
| Jesus show up, show our Sunday best, he on schedule |
| Used to wonder, «Were we left behind, did he forget us?» |
| Mama said, «Don't question the Lord, you open doors for the Devil, boo» |
| That chicken grease on deck, the old jaunt to the left of you |
| Black as fat back salt pork, the seasoned vegetables |
| Cholesterol level a stress, believe gon' get the best of you |
| Precious is breath, neck poised, it’s clear, Huxtable |
| For the trauma on my sleeve, those haunted by memories |
| For chief, lords, folk in between, tribal wars |
| called to intervene, guns drawn |
| The burned cross, the six degrees separated |
| Those torn, blood that pours |
| Tears that run 'cross the wound, the sore |
| The bruise, the blues chord |
| The muse in the dark, the Me Too, that |
| For Tirana Burkes, Rosa Parks, for things that fall apart |
| Conflict of the, there’s a space kept, a floor swept |
| A future for you right now |