| I’ve been waiting for you to reduce the black experience to a Super Series of
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| fly-by-night catch phrasing
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| And for every hiccup that I might sight for me to be labeled wide-eyed and trite
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| As a forest nymph in stretch plating
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| 'Exclamation point apostrophe slash' is what you get when your Modus operandi
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| comes off like a comedy gag
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| Its like being spoon fed from a colostomy bag of an old crotchety hag
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| That got all of us hard-numb-palmed and deep fried
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| You know that!
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| I know you, you know me
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| I’m from the project blowed family
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| With a pitch match nasty scratch give a song a home
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| This unknown band is holding its own
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| Sorry, underground hip-hop happened ten years ago
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| Imagine having to say this at the Pan-African theater group bake sale
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| Its been painted over like a glazed crayon pedicure
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| And the mantra’s been scrambled into this crazed non-sequitur
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| Sorry, underground hip-hop happened ten years ago
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| These words stay parenthesized between two reticent moon halves
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| So go tell them douche bags their white tees look like night gowns
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| While I loaf under the awning of my moral high ground
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| Yeah!
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| No shit!
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| Y’all got salt water colonics
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| While my alma mater’s polish was hallmark worthy
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| No shit!
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| And though my small squad is modest
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| I’m a cross-journal lobbyist
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| Here to install thoughts with moral conflicts
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| Oh!
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| Still girls do not sing mucho gusto papi
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| Nor do I get kudos for being a pseudo-commie
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| Cause I let niggas down like Boutros Boutros-Ghali
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| Being overboard like a cruise boat volley
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| Fool, suck my glucose lollie
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| I know you, you know me
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| I’m from the project blowed family
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| With a pitch match nasty scratch give a song a home
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| This unknown band is holding its own |