Somebody explain this shyte to a brotha © 2004 Iamwhoam1959 We relegate ourselves to far less than second class standards And blaming the white man has become our standard Yet we support agendas that take us for granted You know the drill Pass out a few crumbs Leaving the rest of them stranded Now how do you think those who were transplanted? Thru the midst of the Atlantic Feel about the seeds that they planted Was it all in vain? Now they say don’t hate the playa Hate the game So how does one explain? The lore of red and blue gangs Streets laced with bloody stains Crack sales, gang bangs Earning rep the late poet Tupac called it - street fame But Pac reminded us That it’s the thugs in suits who stand to gain And despite the daily carnage we remain the same, Afraid to name names, accepting with mind numbing alacrity Our collective shame And how do we explain Our lack of ambition What ancient karma has come to fruition? As descendants of kings Bow in homage to inferior traditions Cuz neither Muslim, Jew nor Christian Has stopped our unrelenting march to perdition We hear the truth But offer little resistance Preferring a marginalized existence So how many more will die Before we listen? But we listen To compromised politicians With doggy style ways As hidden cameras displayed 57 new ways to misbehave And thus they betrayed The martyrdom of Martin and Malcolm As they were welcomed In to the rituals of the beast Participating in their blood lusting androgynous feasts And what do you suppose The millions of immortal souls Say as we lie in repose Watching us fold As more and more leaders become exposed For bargain basement prices they become bought and sold And how do you explain Our belief in a theology rooted in Caucasus caves Forced on us by the ones that called us slaves Thus we worship a man made god With genocidal ways And on Sundays we behave In total acknowledgment of how far we’ve strayed And just skip past the spot where the night before A four year old was sprayed Each night bullets blaze And crack heads prey On the elders What once was a village can no longer shelter It’s become more like Helter Skelter But this is not a Lennon and McCartney song And by the way, Mr. Minister, In 95 weren’t we suppose to atone? So somebody explain Why future kings continue to die And 13-year-old mothers try to get by Offering their temples To the lowest bidder Living in denial as their stomachs gets bigger An existence 5 zeroes from six figures But wouldn’t you figure Some one would hip her? And perhaps deliver The truth about her holy roots That the seed she carries is the sacred fruit Of divine intentions We need to put to rest our self-hatred And self-inflicted lynchings And recognize we are Black gods and black goddesses On a holy mission? Only by accepting our greatness Can we make a difference Yet with all that is stake Can you explain to a brotha? Why we still won’t listen?