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The last time I touched ground I shut down towns and gave pounds to people in Lowndes – back when the south wasn’t dirty cause of its sound, and when you had a different reasoning to chamber the round. Justice only went to a judge’s chamber to drown, and a brother sitting down could stiffen a whole town. Back when black was a more powerful noun and rap was for getting free and off limit to clowns jah-bless-the-panthers from h. rap brown to fanny lou and everyone who held thangs down – I’ll take you back like the crack of the whip when freedom equaled whipping crackers with the back of the clip cause speaking truth to power more than fattened your lip and going underground was the best way you could hit – break the chains – burn the cotton – and dip, board the chariot w/ Harriet, find fear bury it and marry the trip – cause man -freedom’s looking pregnant as shit and all attending this shotgun wedding is trying to get hitched – (back) when the first snitch got his first stitch, before selling out your brother was a form of getting rich –


I came through fields of cane to claim you in a place where there wasn’t a north to race to, and just like the cotton – sugar cane blaze too, and just like the south - Jamaican slaves raid too. Maroon cliques thick in the hills who made do- black guerillas who made the british militias pay dues, Cudjoe sleyed mad crews of they best dudes, and Accompong brung the pain of chained truths, just some Africans doing what Africans do, acting amazing in situations too bad to be true – Mexico to Brazil they stayed ill, Yanga, Nanny, and Benko stay real/ Black mandingo from san domingo if you don’t get the lingo –huh- you’s the gringo, T.L.O. and O don’t stand for Owens – he didn’t play games but he surely got open, he left france and Britain and spain all broken with the meanest team of brothers they ever brought over oceans, revolutionary commotions promoting white power convulsions, leaving them heaving and seeking other notions


you can call Bechtel on your Nextel - tell them that their pipeline’s about to catch hell, if they think I’m gonna die for them they ain’t well, I’m the fire next time and I’m at their doorbell. AWOL as hell with no fears of jail cause they got money for war but my community fails, I only signed up so I could climb out of sales cause the way I made money courts take it bail. When I get back I’m putting bush on a scale and I’m a take a pound of flesh until justice prevails – till they start fixing up these broken down schools, till they get their hands off a woman’s right to choose, till they blame companies instead of immigrants for paying people less than it takes to pay the rent. Till America starts behaving herself and doing unto other countries what she’d do to herself – and I know I aint the only one who thinks like me even though they never try to show us on the tv – the movement has deep roots man believe me – cause the fire next time is coming to dc

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from The Art of Struggle, released August 6, 2008
Son of Nun & DJ Mentos

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Son of Nun Baltimore, Maryland

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