Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Blood, artist - Sarah Jones
Date of issue: 31.12.2001
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Blood |
It is the thickest blood on this planet |
The feet, that slip and slide in spilled lakes of black blood |
on back roads marked with rusted dead end signs |
They don’t fit into any shoes |
Not Nike’s, and not Reebok’s, though they |
make em across the sea and sell em to you and me for fifty times their value *tch* none of them can hold the blood |
that coagulated not so long ago, in the lower extremities |
of off-color corpses, strung up from trees |
Like, drying figs or, hanging poupourri, to sweeten scenes of Southern gallantry |
Before cushioned insoles and arch supports |
There were feet that sank in rusted chains, and uhh |
backs that cracked beneath the weight of slave names |
like Jones, Smith, Johnson, Williams, or even Hilfiger |
And black butts that bore marks forever from irons |
that preceded those for pressing and curling naps |
yanked straight, before relaxers weaves and pink lotion |
Branding irons children, now that you’ve crossed the ocean right |
Step up here lit-tle nigger on the auction block and open up your mouth |
Right, good strong teeth, good muscle tone |
You oughta pick a ton of cotton, must be worth ten dollars maybe more |
See here ladies and gentlemen how much can I get for this here |
barely used, top of the line… |
Fast forward to Calvin Klein |
and modern ownership tags for black behinds, courtesy of Ralph Lauren |
A.K.A. |
low, low, well how low can you go? |
Call on black consumers if you want the cash flow |
Cause they quick to flip and spend up all they dough |
and don’t front money, act like you know |
We give it up to the Brook-lyn malls |
We give it up to the Uptown malls |
Cause the white folks figure ain’t no question for a nigga |
that material posessions can answer |
Keep us preoccupied from what we read or what we drive |
while our mothers are dying of cancer |
We tuck our low self esteem in Euro-trash jeans |
some overpriced shit from Donna Karan |
As we toast with Hennesey to covert white supremacy |
Hiding the thickest blood on the planet |
we wearing it under our clothes, the way God dressed our souls |
but, check how the proud blood flow through 1996 |
Adding fuel to the flames of some bullshit brand names |
cause we couldn’t see past the next pair of fat kicks |
It is the thickest blood on this planet |
The blood that, sprays and spills in buckets |
soaks and stains the nightly news, but fuck it A colored life still ain’t worth but a few ducats |
That blood can’t be contained by any mind that cannot see a great black forest for all these cracker trees |
I’m talkin about Afro-Madonna, and child, and child |
and child, and child, and whoops, there goes another one |
And momma don’t know the answer so baby gots to Guess |
Oh say young blood, you wanna tell me what George Marciano, ever did for a negro? |
Boricua, chicano |
brothers and sisters their pockets like blood blisters |
Ready to pop, ooze, and drop cash so hot and so fast |
it makes a spark |
Yeah mami cause now I got my upside down triangle |
My designer question mark |
OH WHY ASK WHY that shit don’t make you complete |
It’s vanilla concealer for your chocolate heartbeat |
Pumping the, thickest blood on this planet |
While we take it for granted that, more Selma churches won’t be bombed |
More bullet riddled bodies won’t be embalmed |
Another cop won’t, commit murder turn around and get a raise |
while we pickin over the racks from white owned Doctor J’s |
to Modell’s, Macy’s, and Sach’s |
Shit they just think we ain’t never gon’change our ways |
and finally answer back: |
No suh, Ise don’t want to wear yo’britches |
No suh, Ise don’t want to grant yo’wishes |
That all us negroes.. shall continue to hide, in your shoes |
and your clothes, as if we should take pride |
in your savage traditions, in genocide |
All the spirits you extinguished and never batted one blue eye |
Yet your vulture’s on our culture like white on brown rice |
Bleach our blood and sell it back, special price |
on this blood that races through the African veins of the child |
on his way to the mall, in White Plains |
to catch a confused, lost, land-stealing Columbus Day sale |
on a Fila jogging suit, for his brother in jail |
That blood, is your blood, it’s my blood, it’s our blood |
It’s the, thickest blood on this planet |