| It is the thickest blood on this planet
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| The feet, that slip and slide in spilled lakes of black blood
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| on back roads marked with rusted dead end signs
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| They don’t fit into any shoes
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| Not Nike’s, and not Reebok’s, though they
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| 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
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| that coagulated not so long ago, in the lower extremities
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| of off-color corpses, strung up from trees
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| Like, drying figs or, hanging poupourri, to sweeten scenes of Southern gallantry
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| Before cushioned insoles and arch supports
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| There were feet that sank in rusted chains, and uhh
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| backs that cracked beneath the weight of slave names
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| like Jones, Smith, Johnson, Williams, or even Hilfiger
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| And black butts that bore marks forever from irons
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| that preceded those for pressing and curling naps
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| yanked straight, before relaxers weaves and pink lotion
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| Branding irons children, now that you’ve crossed the ocean right
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| Step up here lit-tle nigger on the auction block and open up your mouth |
| Right, good strong teeth, good muscle tone
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| You oughta pick a ton of cotton, must be worth ten dollars maybe more
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| See here ladies and gentlemen how much can I get for this here
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| barely used, top of the line…
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| Fast forward to Calvin Klein
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| and modern ownership tags for black behinds, courtesy of Ralph Lauren
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| A.K.A. |
| low, low, well how low can you go?
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| Call on black consumers if you want the cash flow
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| Cause they quick to flip and spend up all they dough
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| and don’t front money, act like you know
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| We give it up to the Brook-lyn malls
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| We give it up to the Uptown malls
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| Cause the white folks figure ain’t no question for a nigga
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| that material posessions can answer
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| Keep us preoccupied from what we read or what we drive
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| while our mothers are dying of cancer
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| We tuck our low self esteem in Euro-trash jeans
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| some overpriced shit from Donna Karan
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| As we toast with Hennesey to covert white supremacy
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| Hiding the thickest blood on the planet
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| we wearing it under our clothes, the way God dressed our souls
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| but, check how the proud blood flow through 1996 |
| Adding fuel to the flames of some bullshit brand names
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| cause we couldn’t see past the next pair of fat kicks
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| It is the thickest blood on this planet
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| The blood that, sprays and spills in buckets
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| soaks and stains the nightly news, but fuck it A colored life still ain’t worth but a few ducats
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| That blood can’t be contained by any mind that cannot see a great black forest for all these cracker trees
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| I’m talkin about Afro-Madonna, and child, and child
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| and child, and child, and whoops, there goes another one
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| And momma don’t know the answer so baby gots to Guess
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| Oh say young blood, you wanna tell me what George Marciano, ever did for a negro? |
| Boricua, chicano
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| brothers and sisters their pockets like blood blisters
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| Ready to pop, ooze, and drop cash so hot and so fast
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| it makes a spark
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| Yeah mami cause now I got my upside down triangle
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| My designer question mark
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| OH WHY ASK WHY that shit don’t make you complete
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| It’s vanilla concealer for your chocolate heartbeat
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| Pumping the, thickest blood on this planet |
| While we take it for granted that, more Selma churches won’t be bombed
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| More bullet riddled bodies won’t be embalmed
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| Another cop won’t, commit murder turn around and get a raise
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| while we pickin over the racks from white owned Doctor J’s
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| to Modell’s, Macy’s, and Sach’s
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| Shit they just think we ain’t never gon’change our ways
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| and finally answer back:
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| No suh, Ise don’t want to wear yo’britches
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| No suh, Ise don’t want to grant yo’wishes
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| That all us negroes.. shall continue to hide, in your shoes
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| and your clothes, as if we should take pride
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| in your savage traditions, in genocide
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| All the spirits you extinguished and never batted one blue eye
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| Yet your vulture’s on our culture like white on brown rice
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| Bleach our blood and sell it back, special price
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| on this blood that races through the African veins of the child
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| on his way to the mall, in White Plains
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| to catch a confused, lost, land-stealing Columbus Day sale
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| on a Fila jogging suit, for his brother in jail
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| That blood, is your blood, it’s my blood, it’s our blood |
| It’s the, thickest blood on this planet |