Lyrics 400 Years - CYNE

400 Years

I was told about it.
Young freedom fighter seeking soul asylum
They call him Marcus Garvey, wants to start this
Soldier boy’s quest to bless the land of heartless man
He had a kind of self first.
Yo, the plan demand
Action.
My resolution with the MAC-10
People don’t react ‘til you actually start blasting
That’s when the cockier media start asking
Saying, «Who's this kid with the Garveyite fashion?»
You could be down with the brown or Anglo-Saxon
Throw your fist in the air for slave caster
Militant mind stay converted, brave past his time
I ain’t asking for shine ‘cause people owe me
That’s why these young thugs rub blood so holy
Now they hate to see this: mercenaries out for Jesus
Live from the pearly white gates, about to squeeze.
Does
Godly back Confederate flags?
I’m held hostage
No forty acres, a mule—abused profits
With no forty acres, a mule—abused profits
For 400 years we shed tears
When it’s death among peers, we pour beers.
But now what?
Just look what the world made me: enslaved me
But at the end, yo, what the fuck’s gonna save me?
Standing in front of monuments that are placed in prestigious colleges
Presenting they grace but yet racist to the obvious
Factor: light skin to the hues of blacker shades
Of face.
I chase my dreams in the shadow of hate
Battle, debating, I’m moving at a radical rate
Must I hide my face just to fucking relate?
Wait.
The invisible man with divisible plans
Could visualize lies, shackling both hands
For 400 years we shed tears
When it’s death among peers, we pour beers.
But now what?
Just look what the world made me: enslaved me
But at the end, yo, what the fuck’s gonna save me?
Fulfill a mission ‘cause I’m feeling like we’re still in bondage
Half a millennium, my moment where I’m thinking homage
And there’s a clarity, a vision in this rat race
Tackle our shackles to erase names with no face
Strategy placed in a single word to free the mind
Designing rhymes for the eyes of my people blind
In any attempt, feeble or not, shit
Sorry to say I wish Bush would get shot—bla!
Hock these words that I spit.
Intense
Contempt ripped with borderline hatred for the cowardice
Powers that be control the powerless beings
With the money that we never see, so we could never be
had us trapped here for four score
Plus four hundred more.
I had to move on this World War
Any excuse, come blast with gats, drop the gas
On they ass so the mass’ll get the last laugh