Chapter 2 of White Supremacy on Its Deathbed: Macaroni Sounds (Over That Brrrap-Brrrap-Brrrap)

Let's workshop Chapter 2 of my book-length lyrical essay (White Supremacy on Its Deathbed), which aims to promote true black excellence by exposing the harmful implications of mainstream antiracism

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Chapter 2. Macaroni Sounds (Over That Brrrap-Brrrap-Brrrap)

The pimps in the entertainment industry who distribute gangsta rap are major contributors to the destruction of the African American community. . . .What do you think Dr. King would have to say about rappers calling black women bitches and whores? About rappers glorifying thugs and drug dealers and rapists? What kind of role models are those for young children living in the ghetto? . . . [Let Suge Knight and all the white record executives,] all the same people who are out there pimping pornography to your children, com[e] after me! But I will never quit. I promise you that either this gangsta porno rap is going to die or I’m going to die trying to stop it.—C. Delores Tucker[1]

The standards of the civilization into which you were born are first outside of you, and by the time you get to be a man they're inside of you. . . . If you're treated a certain way you become a certain kind of person. If certain things are described as being real, they're real for you whether they're real or not.—James Baldwin[2]

To perpetuate black-deviance stereotypes that have long provided ammunition to antiblack ideologies; to ensure that each wave of young people, each wave of innocent breath, never forget the animalistic threat posed by blacks (drug-dealing killers and homewrecking hoes) and that blacks still (as in the whip-and-chain days of chattel slavery) serve foremost as instruments of primal sexuality (more beast than human, and so requiring rougher treatment and less anesthesia and all that); to engrave deeper into the western psyche the notion that blacks simmer with a hypersexuality matched only by their hyperviolence; to keep black worth tethered (and perhaps even tighter than ever before) to inflated physicality and jezebel availability and carnal aggression; to prevent our culture from de-normalizing the timeworn practice of restraining and sexually harassing black bodies; to steer yet another fresh generation of black souls toward the precipices of perilous sexual pursuits and criminal pursuits and narcotic pursuits; to make certain that black people’s capacity for loving each other remain tangled in ephemeral encounters of mere physical collision, limited mainly to fucking and being fucked (as opposed to dancing on an intimate journey of consensual connection with a kindred agent rich in emotions and inner psychology); to encourage attitudes and behaviors that fatten the coffers of investors in funeral parlors and prisons and sex toys and pharmaceutical companies—what might white supremacy do from its deathbed?

It could just sit back and revel in our world where, almost as if—so a conspiracy-minded person could easily think—the so-called “white powers that be” frantically pivoted their Mordor eye in alarm at hip hop’s potential to hoist black souls onto knowledge-seeking and antiviolence and safe-sex paths of fate-carving self-reliance, socially-conscious rap acts (Brand Nubian, Poor Righteous Teachers, De La Soul, A Tribe Called Quest, Arrested Development, Queen Latifah, Public Enemy, Gang Starr, Common, Dead Prez, The Roots, Pete Rock and CL Smooth) and all their prosocial songs of black empowerment (anthems like “Self-Destruction,” which Farrakhan himself would describe as more ideologically efficacious than a thousand Farrakhan speeches) have long become whispers of mainstream past, washed away throughout the 90s and 2000s by a saliva-cum-discharge-Percocet-blood river polluted with crack pipes and guns and drill-holed bodies (but, noticeably, no Left-Eye condoms)—a yellow torrent of glorified gangsterism and mumble-making drug-use and unchecked promiscuity that we all, spellbound by macaroni sounds over that Brrrap-Brrrap-Brrrap, slurp up (munch) today (especially our impressionable youth), which is no small matter when it comes to molding the image of black people (from ascending brothers and sisters who listen to “Optimistic,” to dehumanized niggas and hoes who listen to “Pound Town”) since music is the most enchanting teacher.

It could just sit back and revel in our world where we so often think first of musical artists when we think of black females, and yet where the hypersexual form of black-female musical artist (embodied in, say, Lil Kim and Nicki Minaj) so monopolizes over mellower forms (embodied in, say, Esperanza Spalding and Rhiannon Giddens) that we have to squint past all the Grammys flying at a gyrating sea of black twerking asses (oil-slicked in hedonistic frenzy for voracious cameras) to spot the endangered alternatives out there—squint to see that there really are, believe it or not, non-sexually-extreme (indeed, non-empty-plastic, non-bling-gaudy, non-superficial-decadent, non-self-indulgent, non-reality-TV, non-Mammon-worshipping, non-Trump) black-female musicians who actually suffer hours training in classical-music conservatories, apprenticing under masters (their souls resonating with a depth and discipline far from the glittering façade of mainstream sensationalism).

It could just sit back and revel in our world where the old white pastime of gawking at “freak exhibitions” of big-booty blacks has resurged to become our global obsession, having evolved from relatively humble beginnings—most notably perhaps the European tour of Sarah Baartman (Hottentot Venus), who no doubt had to perform proto-versions of the twerk (that ass likely shined up with whale oil)—to today’s twerk-bot Cardi B, basted with her own drippings of aberrant sexuality, magnified in the cherished screens of almost every human in almost every nation (even the bombed out ones of limited calories).

It could just sit back and revel in our world where, against the constant bass-bumping backdrop of catchy chants easy to imagine lionesses starved for a good conquering might sing if they had human tongue (“Rich nigga eight figure that’s my type / Eight inch big ooh that’s my pipe / Bad bitch I’ma ride that dick all night”), we need specialized hearing aids to tune into those rare lyrics where black women, despite all the dangled incentives of shiny objects and viral fame (the bait pop culture has us, and them, believe they cherish above their very souls), actually refuse to enliven the fantasy at the very heart of our national culture (a fantasy, in a twisted turn of events, now raucously celebrated by those meant to be dehumanized by it): that black females—forever bound as they apparently cannot help but remain to the savageries of African jungles—hanker not simply for sex, but (as even just the radio anthems reflect) for degradation in all the beer-dumping ways of relatively-tame 90s rap videos and then some (choke-handled, spit upon) while having all their holes “beaten up and skeeted up” to prolapse extremes with such no-means-yes barbarism—by colossal cocks with Trumpian coffers, of course (these “whores in the house” do have some standards!)—that even police, despite how trigger-happy the media cannot help but saying they cannot help but be around blacks, might have to get called (“Beat it up, nigga, catch a charge / Extra large, and extra hard”).

It could just sit back and revel in our world where, reflecting the positive feedback loop between black songs glamorizing mammoth dick and everyday black woman’s desire for mammoth dick, more and more black woman approached in the street with a microphone declare with speaker-overloading adamance that they would never accept a man with a small dick (no matter whatever else he had to offer)—such viral-because-sensational clips sowing countless seeds of gnawing suspicion not only in men told by their black girlfriends how ridiculous such women are, but also in those black girlfriends themselves (now infected with the virus likely to mutate them into living caricatures themselves).

It could just sit back and revel in our world where, against the constant bass-bumping backdrop of catchy chants looping in the morning streets as children flash middle fingers at their doddering crossing guards (“All she wanna do is pop a Perc and get her pussy beat (ba-ba-ba) / Take this dick, bitch, stop pushin me / Face in the pillow, bitch, don't look at me”), we need special hearing aids to tune into those rare lyrics where black men actually refuse to enliven a fantasy at the very heart of our national culture (a fantasy, in a ghoulish switch-up sometimes even frightening to its creators, now raucously celebrated by those meant to be degraded by it): that black men—forever bound as they apparently cannot help but remain to the savageries of African jungles—hanker not simply for sex, but (as even just the radio anthems reflect) for satiating the beating-skeeting demands of black women (sapphiric jezebels), all while—as we would expect after decades of callous killing glorified in gangster rap—holding a weapon (once perhaps a stone or a Wakanda staff of ancestral might but now in the new world a Glock) in case a lower-lip-biting threat of a head strike is needed to keep the bodies in line—the ultimate taboo prize, of course, being white female bodies since, unlike with black female bodies (whose sexually-voracious nature warrants bush treatment as disposable playthings), white female bodies have been pedestalized for so long as sites of purity warranting dignity-preserving protection.

It could just sit back and revel in our world where—although resulting in a great deal of white male (and even black male) demoralization for not being “black in the bedroom” and although resulting in a growing number of wannabee-black white girls aiming to be the subject of gangbang bukkakees—black men, as symbolized by that old bestializing trope of monstrous anatomy, are renowned for what has long been used to mark them as subhuman threats to civil order, but now (as if by some perverse aikido of Mordor) has society at large—yes, even Texan rednecks with dixie-flagged trucks and ten-gallon hats (surely not covering steer horns)—swooning like Elvis groupies unable to resist the musk of exoticism: their sexual deviancy; their hypermasculine brutality and supernatural stamina in the bedroom, which allows them to beat up Thotiana’s holes “like Emmett Till” (until “she throw up” and the “pussy looks like Pacquiao” and the asshole’s creamed like “a murder scene”); their power and desire, in effect, to exercise the nastiest domination over bodies—whether a Rick-Ross champagne drugging to get those bodies back home to enjoy (without those bodies ever knowing), or a Blueface hair-yanking to thwart attempts to run (“Ain’t no runnin”), or a Kodak-Black mouth dicking to replace any “No” or cry of pain with what pop culture would have us think is for a black man the auditory equivalent of his watermelon (“Eghck eghck egchk”).

It could just sit back and revel in our world where, as seen especially in the fetishistic music (and correlative fetishistic porn) that sells best, the fever dream of black hypersexuality reposes as the golden-goose foundation for such a bloated industry—one that can afford going granular enough to release lip-balm flavors like “Coochie Juice,” “Bootyhole Brown,” “Coochie Pink,” “Sex on My Period,” “Gonorrhea,” “Yellow Discharge,” and “Nut”—that some black performers in the whirlpool, perhaps to sleep with less vertigo at night or to lessen the fragmentation between their real selves and their performing selves, over time—and just like so many gangster rappers did decades prior—even hypnotize themselves (fortune, the mesmerist spiral; fame, the mesmerist pendulum) into feeling that they really are the fiendish caricatures they play on TV, that the bestial stereotypes their performances serve to reify really does align with their innermost ideals and standards and attitudes and desires and behaviors concerning sex—whether

Sukihana-drug-and-cum-thirsty (“You can block my number, but he still gon eat my ass / He just paid for my titties, that's why you bitches mad / I suck dick like a champion when he put the Perc in my ass. . . ./ Rachet ho, but I feel like Kim Kardashian / My pussy good, that's why a bitch stay pregnant / I swallow nut, I really feel like a elephant”);

or MC-Lyte-schoolyard-preying (“I'm too old? What's with that crap? / Come on now brother, age is just a number / Anyway what matters is your state of mind. . . . / Are you really serious? Age really matters? . . . . / I could of showed you things, taught you how to explore/ My question is, what are you too young for? . . . / It may sound nasty and it may sound mean / But I'm into little boys that are about seventeen / I don't know why, but they put up a fight / and hot damn that excites the MC Lyte. . . . / I love young boys on the brink, of being young men / I mold em, shape em, make em then I break em in. . . . / So if you're in school, that's okay / Get straight A's and I'll be back on Friday. . . . / Never let age, restrict you from what you want to do / Whether you're young or ninety-two / So if you're seventeen or around that age / baby come to the stage”);

or Doja-Cat-unquenchable (“Spank me, slap me, choke me, bite me. . . . / Give a fuck 'bout what your wifey's sayin. . . . / I just want to fuck all night”);

or Boosie-Badazz-birthday-bashing (“At 11 I'm gonna go get my son a Ferrari / At seven I'm gon get him head at his birthday party”);

or Summer-Walker-thieving-and-drugging (“If you got the sense that God gave you / don't leave me round your man. . . . / I drop the Perc in his drink / and I don't give a damn”);

or Biggie-anal-raping-those-who-step-to-him (“Niggas press they luck and they get a butt-fuckin / Straight up the ass raw dog with the rash / And I don't fuck with the condoms / The condoms is a problem from the AIDS getting sprayed / Diseases, B.I.G. pleases. . . . / I'm crazy and deranged / Blowing niggas out the frame, simple and plain”);

or Sexyy-Red-robbing-and-analingus-loving (“Lick between my booty crack / I'm a hoochie mama, slash hoodrat / Hoes hate on me 'cause my coochie fat / Put a Perc-30 in my asshole / Yo' bitch boring, she a lame ho. . . . / Nigga, put that dick / balls deep in my liver (sex, sex) / If you got the sense that God gave you / don't leave me round your nigga (sex, sex) / He finna eat this ass / I made him spend them bands (sex, sex) / Went through the pussy-nigga pocket / cuz he was too high off the Xans”);

or Sexyy-Red-callous (“My son need a new pappy / Too many bitches, where the niggas at? / I'm tryna get my coochie scratched / I'm tryna get my coochie stretched. . . . / I can't say his name cuz he be cheatin (I love you, baby) / Yeah, and I'm the reason”);

or Sukihana-homewrecking (“I'm faithful to a nigga that's married / Steal niggas, I'm the Grinch, Jim Carrey / I wanna choke right now / Put the dick in my throat right now. . . .  I'ma fuck your baby daddy and I'ma fuck him again / I'ma suck his dick, without no hands / Spend his bread then fuck yo' man / You heard what I said, what the fuck I said / I'll beat yo' ass then fuck yo' man. . . . / I take yo' nigga, put this pussy on his tongue / Deep-throatin dick, I got cum all in my lungs”);

or Flo-Milli-heartless (“Yo' main dude wanna feel on my body / And if I take him, bitch, I won't say I'm sorry. . . . / A bad bitch with no morals, I'm sinning);

or more Flo-Milli-heartless (“I'm winnin, on your man mind like a fitted (yeah) / This pussy V.I.P. and he can't get in it (lil hoe)”

or Chief-Keef-empathetic-ultimatuming (“Ain't gon let me fuck, and I feel you / But you gon suck my dick 'fore I kill you”);

or Dr.-Dre-rape-and-murder-orchestrating (“Now listen up and lemme tell you how I did it / Yo, I tied her to the bed, I was thinking the worst / But yo, I had to let my niggas fuck it first yeah / Loaded up the .44, yo / Then I straight smoked the ho / Cause I'm a real nigga, but I guess she figured”);

or Ghostface-high-school-nookie (“Five and a half in boys, ass is off the hook / High school pussy, heard you got the best nookie / Sugar walls, rocks o love, slide right on my dick / I'm palmin ya ass like this while you ridin it”);

or Foxy-Brown-reckless (“I’m sexin raw dog without protection, disease infested");

or Mulatto-nasty (“Double-hand hand twist the pipe but I ain't even plumbing / He like 'em nasty-nasty, bitch, I'm Mrs. Put That Thumb In”);

or Bell-Biv-DeVoe-young-lust (“Backstage, underage, adolescent. / How ya doin? Fine, she replied. / I sighed. I like to do the wild thing. / Action took place. Kinda wet. Don’t forget”);

or Cam’ron-track-covering (“Who else in a hurry to mirk / We kill girls, rape 'em, bury their skirts”);

or LL-Cool-J’s-drunken-high-school-lust (“I went to the high school about three o'clock / to try to catch a cutie ridin my jock / My homeboy's jeep, the system blastin / cold forty dogs, smilin and laughin / Girls all over, the kind I adore / I felt like a kid in a candy store”);

or Too-$hort’s-sixteen-year-old-lust (“ I met this girl, thick as hell / Only sixteen, said her name was Linell / I took her to my house, I could not wait / Her shit was much tighter than a central safe”);

or KRS-One’s-thirteen-year-old-lust (“Overwhelmed by my playboy charms / We jumped in the ride rushed to the crib / I ain't gotta explain what we did / Built to last I simply waxed that / Ax the question, no need for guessin / Hey baby, how old are you? . . ./ And said, “Hee, hee, hee I'm only 13" / 13!! I need a quick escape / That's statutory rape / But she was GOOD! . . . / Yo even if I get beat down that shit was GOOD”);

or Biggie’s-even-younger-lust-shared-by-Karl-Malone-and-the-Holy-Ghost-alike (“Stab you 'til you're gushy, so please don't push me / I'm using rubbers so they won't trace the semen / The black demon got the little hookers screaming / Because you know I love it young, fresh and green / with no hair in between, know what I mean?”);

or E40’s-blood-standard (“I met her last night and today she paged me / Wanna know if B-Legit can kick it tonight (what else) / Only sixteen, way too tight / But age ain't nothin but a number- number. . . . / Nine nine ten, eleven and up / If you bleed, you get fucked”);

or Biggie-particularly-eight-year-old-lust (“You can 76 the 69 try 68 / Make Raven-Symoné call date rape”);

or Big-Daddy-Kane-even-more-inclusive-lust (“You gotta have a brain in order to be Ms. Kane / But in the case of not becomin my lady / I’ll take ’em eight to eighty, dumb, crippled and crazy”);

or Field-Mob-going-as-low-as-possible (“Make me make you cum like jury duty / You pregnant glad it ain't mine / It’s a fact I was strapped, I ain't lyin / Doctor say its a lil girl good / Now I get pussy and head at the same time”);

or Pimp-C’s-going-as-low-as-possible (“You see, fuckin pregnant pussy is simple / all you gotta do is hope the baby think your dickhead is a nipple / And if the cum snatcha stimulate my sack / he just might get a fat load of Similac / And if he start kicking, I'ma keep sticking / Go a little deeper, give his bad ass a whipping. . . . / And once I get the bitch in the raw / Me and her kid can have a nice ménage à trois / So believe I ain't kicking no bullshit / Cuz pregnant pussy is the best you can get”);

or Bun-B’s-going-as-low-as-possible (“Now if she got a boy, it ain't fun / But if she got a girl, then it's two pussies for the price of one / And if the belly's all stacked / I'll put the ho on all four and hit the pussy from the back / I'm fucking all over the womb. . . . / Your baby's sneezing out nuts because I bust one in his nose”);

or Tyga-age-is-just-a-number-justifying (“They say she young, I should've waited /She a big girl, dog when she stimulated");

or Ice-Cube’s-fuck-the-law-when-it-comes-to-love (“Mister, mister, before you make me go / I'm here to let you know your little girl is a ho / Nympho, nympho, boy is she bad / Get her all alone and out comes the kneepads / I know she is a minor and it is illegal / But the bitch is worse than Vanessa Del Rio / And if you decide to call rape / We got the little hooker on tape”);

or Lil-Uzi-dehumanizing (“Better get your bitch, nigga, I'll rip her / Had her up on my bed then I flipped her”);

or Dat-Nigga-Daz-robbery-oriented-sex (“This is what you look for in a hoe who got cash flow / You run up in them hoes and grab the cash / And get your dash on while you're chillin, with your homies and shit / and how my niggaz kick the anthem like this: / Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks / Lick on deez nutz and suck the dick”);

or Kurupt-passing-women-around-like-blunts (“So how the fuck am I supposed to pay this hoe, just to lay this hoe / I know the pussy's mines, I'ma fuck a couple more times / And then I'm through with it, there's nothing else to do with it / Pass it to the homie, now you hit it / cuz she ain't nothin but a bitch to me / And y'all know, that bitches ain't shit to me”);

or Finesse2tymes-racially-degrading (“My bitch yellow, drank yellow”);

or Vado-gang-rapey (“Never fucked? Nut you ate that / My niggas fucked and we raped that”);

or Megan-nymphomaniacal (“Thinkin he's a player, he's a member on the team / He put in all that work, he wanna be the MVP / I told him ain't no taming me, I love my niggas equally”);

or 2-Live-Crew-train-rapey (“You see, me and my homies like to play this game / We call it Amtrak but some call it the train / We all would line up in a single-file line / And take our turns at waxing girls' behinds / But every time it came to me, I was shit out of luck / Because I'd stick my dick in and it would get stuck / The girls would say, “Stop", I'd say, “I'm not”);

or Tyler-the-Creator-taboo (“You call this shit ‘kids,’ well I call these kids ‘cum’ / and you call this shit ‘rape’ but I think that rape’s fun”);

or Lil-Baby-Pandarian (“Treat these hoes like a tire, I keep a spare”);

or Cam’ron-incestual (“I ran into my aunt / with the fat ass and the thin chest”);

or Minaj-freaky (“How about I cum all on your dick and then I lick it off?”);

or Minaj-schoolyard-predation (“And when you get it, don't be telling where you get it from / I know you young but you know I like that young money. . . . / See, little boy, I can be your little teacher / And if you ball, then meet me behind the bleacher”);

or Trina-raunchy (“Licky licky licky licky licky for an hour / I’ma make it rain for you, golden shower”);

or Big-L-loveless (“Fuck love, all I got for hoes is hard dick and bubble gum”);

or Webbie-no-means-yes (“Both of us butt naked / Don’t give it to me I'll take it / Ain’t no time for no fakin / I’m stabbin it like I’m Jason”);

or Kevin-Gates-wife-stealing (“And why you taking care of that bitch? / Wait 'til you find out that we sharing that bitch / Gettin trippy with your girl and her girlfriend (girlfriend) / Bet you never even knew she was a lesbian (lesbian) / Man, that girl swallow nut like an elephant (elephant) / Stupid nigga probably thought your bitch was celibate”);

or Mulatto-gooey (“Double-hand twist have him sittin on a cloud / Hit it from the back, makin macaroni sounds”);

or Megan-extorting (“You better get on your knees and eat this pussy right / before I have another nigga do it for me”);

or Cam’ron’s-child-abusive (“I’ll rape your child / They won’t make the trial”);

or Doja-Cat ruthless (“You know my nigga be buggin me / I just be wonderin if you can fuck on me better”);

or Tyler-the-Creator-forced-threesoming (“Rape a pregnant bitch and tell my friends I had a threesome”);

or DRS-anti-patience (“Girl I'm really sorry that it had to come to this / But I'm not going home with no fucked-up kiss. . . . / Strip! Get 'em off girl! Don't make me chase you! / Strip! Get 'em off girl! Don't make me beat that ass bitch now! / Strip! Get 'em off girl! Here's what you wanted! / Strip! Get 'em off girl! Daddy's lil ho/ Don't be afraid, Girl scream and you might get hurt / Barely eighteen, Flip a coin, let's see who's first / Girl you now that shit was dumb, when you called 911 / It's awful hard to talk, With a mouthful of cum / Don't have to give me shit girl, because I'm takin it / You better move your fuckin arm girl, or else I'm breakin it /  Yo Fellas? (Yeah!) Hold this bitch down! / I'm breakin me off a piece and then I'm passin it around! / The ho shoulda known what we wanted her to do! / Why's your daughter in my room at a quarter after 2?”);

or Minaj-extreme (“YG and The Game with the hammer yelling, “Gang, gang" / This isn't what I meant when I said a gang bang”);

or NWA-underage-gang-rapey (“The dumb bitch licks out the asshole / and she'll let you videotape her / And if you got a gang of niggas, the bitch would let you rape her / She likes suckin on dicks, and lickin up nut / And she even take the broomstick up the butt. . . . / And my turn was like next / I couldn't see her face, all I saw was her pussy and her chest. . . . / Oh shit it’s the preacher’s daughter! / And she's only 14 and a ho' / but the bitch sucks dick like a specialized pro / She looked at me I was surprised / but wasn’t passing up the chance of my dick getting baptized”);

or SWV-conniving (“What your girl don't know won't hurt her / Anything to make this love go further. . . . So what's my chance / I'm willing to do anything to get in your pants / You don't have to worry, I won't say a thing / And if she finds out, I don't know nothing”);

or Xscape cruel (“I like being in the same room as you and your girlfriend / The fact that she don't know / that really turns me on”);

or Tinashe-home-wrecking (“GPS your nigga if you looking for me”);

or TLC-infidelitous (“If he knew the things I did, he couldn't handle it / And I choose to keep him protected / So I creep, yeah, just keep it on the down low”);

or Biggie-extreme (“Don’t they know my nigga Gutter fuckin kidnap kids? / Fuck ’em in the ass, throw ’em over the bridge?”);

or DMX-ferocious (“And if you got a daughter older than 15, I’ma rape her / Take her on the livin room floor, right there in front of you. . . . / Now watch me fuck just a little while longer, please, will you?”);

or Travis-Scott-conquestory (“Got your broad in the garage eatin semen”);

or Cardi-B-belittling (“Fuckin your nigga, I got him on lock”);

or Mustard-emasculating (“Took your bitch out the game, I had to sub her / swap, swap, here we go”);

or Lil-RT-only-eight-but-niggative-as-fuck (“If she ain't suckin dick, lil bitch, you can get the fuck up out my shit / Hundred round, hit him with the Glock, take a fucker down”);

or Megan-superficial (“If your ass a broke nigga, hell nah, I can't meet ya / If your ass a rich nigga, I'ma fuck ya 'til you ain't one”);

or Megan-harlotry (“My pussy is the most expensive meal”);

or Megan-transactional (“Oh, you like big butts, well I like big bucks”);

or Sukihana-transactional (“Put your hands all in yo pockets / Then you pull out that wallet / Tell that nigga stop flossin, you know this pussy costly / Want it dripping like a faucet? You got to make deposits”);

or Sukihana-rent-needing (“My rent due, nigga, let me suck on it / Put that dick in my throat, I wanna lick on it . . . . / Big dick in my stomach, I wanna feel it / Bitch, I eat the cock like a Hot Pocket / Dance on that dick, pop, lock, and drop it / Before a nigga fuck, I need a big deposit. . . . / We ain't got no morals, we some fuckin hoes”);

or DMX-depraved (“I got blood on my hands and there’s no remorse / I got blood on my dick cuz I fucked a corpse”);

or Kash-Doll-remarkable (“My neck game match my wrist game”);

or City-Girls-taunting (“Your baby daddy fuckin me and suckin me / He don't answer you, bitch, that's because of me”);

or Akinyele feticidal (“That belly blows up, it's gonna be trouble / I’ma have to play like a pin and come pop that bubble / Find Chucky if you want child's play / I'll give your ass a hanging and drop you off in an alleyway / This is a diary of a black man / By making no alimony payments due to no wedding bands / So ax that talk about marriage / Miss, you must of misunderstood, I want you to have a miscarriage / I'm fed up, and sorry that I've done it / I'm ready to set her up and have my little man kick her in the stomach / or punch my fist through that naval / cuz I'll be damned if this be the hand that rocks the cradle / or push her down a flight of steps / I don't care or give a heck”);

or so the list goes on (and to much darker places when we dip below billboard-chart artists), more and more lyrics evermore sexually horrendous (somehow even when they make it a point to highlight consent).

It could just sit back and revel in our world where, as if it were not a priority to safeguard innocence while the reserves for later handling the inevitable traumas of life are still developing, we get endless mom-filmed videos of preschool black girls twerking at birthday bashes on Chuck E. Cheese tabletops and playground playscapes chanting in emulation of their favorite orc-looking role models.

“We outside tonight. We outside tonight. We outside tonight!”

“My pussy pink, my booty-hole brown.”

“If you see me and you tryna see what's up (Skee-yee). / He wanna fuck with me, then I'ma have him stuck (skee-yee).”

“Bend that ass over (baow). Let that coochie breathe (yeah). / Shake that ass, bitch, hands on your knees (ho). / Hands on your knees (ho). Hands on your knees (ow).”

It could just sit back and revel in our world where, as if we had forgotten that lost innocence can never be restored (or perhaps as if we are bitter that those before us had forgotten that lost innocence can never be restored), we get the following—relatively tame—tapestry of violence and sexuality from the eight-year-old Atlanta rapper Lil RT, who can be seen in the video throwing cash around as the opportunistic adults behind him, his twilight-zone guardians, take deep drags from Newport loosies (egging “lil nigga” on with glee)—perhaps the same adults who, in a later video, applaud him as he smacks and even takes some sniffs (easy, in fairness, given his height) of the twerking ass of a thonged striper.

If she ain't suckin dick, lil bitch, you can get the fuck up out my shit

Hundred round, hit him with the Glock, take a fucker down

Hundred round, bitch, we hittin that kill, we gon take him down

Twelve get behind me, we gon do sixty fuckin miles, yeah

I'm in a Lamborghini, keep on talkin, bitch I'm in a Lamborghini

Point that beam up on his head

Took his shit, he went out bad

Fifty rounds, nigga know not play wit me

I'll shoot his ass right in the ground

Hand her out

Step on lil bro grave, hit him in his face

If she gon suck the dick, go crazy

Bitch, I'm in a Lamb, keep on talkin

Hit him with this glam

Bitch, I hand up with the Glock

Hit him in the Porsche, hit him with the Glock

I'll take him down

Hit him in his face, make lil bro drop like he okay

Bitch, I got the Glock up on my side

If hе try to run, clap him in the leg, lil nigga drop

Bitch, I'm in the sun

Bitch, I'm in Lamborghini, keep on talkin

'Causе bitch, I'm in the sun

Bitch, I'll throw a bullet out there, hit you in your fuckin face

And that bitch got switch up on, the Glock

Hit him in the K, that bitch got blicked

Hit him in his face (Ah, ah)

She suck the dick just go crazy

Bitch, I'm in a Lamb he keep on talkin, hit him in the mouth

Bitch, I got a Draco up on this shit, fifty round the glick

Hit him in the face, now lil bruh, he a fuckin bitch

Hundred round, hit him with the Glock, we never been took down

Hundred round, hit him with the Glock, we gon take him down

Bitch, she wanna suck the dick

Bitch, I'm from the west side

Not from east side, lil bitch, I'm from the west

Pussy boy, he tryna play

Hit him with the fuckin drac

That bitch got spent up on his day

Bitch, I'm 345, lil baby

It could just sit back and revel in our world where—especially given the taboo on blaming black failings and unfavorable disparities on anything ultimately but white supremacy, and especially given, in particular, the chronic deflection away from the role that black cultural attitudes play in the alarming statistics (blacks are over four times more likely to be victims of homicide than whites; black students account for over thirty-five percent of suspensions despite being around only fifteen percent of the student body; blacks are incarcerated at more than five times the rate of whites; blacks are over five times more likely to be suffer from gonorrhea than whites; blacks account for almost half the number of new HIV cases despite constituting merely thirteen percent of the population; blacks have lower graduation rates than whites in high school and college; and so on)—a quick scan of the music dominating our airwaves would have an intelligence new to Earth thinking we are dead-set, almost as if humanity itself were at stake, on grooming a black culture consumed with murder, cruelty, drug-abuse, consumerism, and low-level thinking—the constant repetition a sort of mass hypnosis.

It could just sit back and revel in our world where, for the war Chris Rock in Bring the Pain called “the civil war between niggers and blacks,” the glorified representation of “niggas” in the media serves as such an effective enlistment campaign (rivaling both “I Want You" Uncle Sam posters and “Be All That You Can Be" commercials) that it would not be a surprise to learn that, at least among those who recognize and hate the war, more than a few citizens across the color line are too afraid even to turn on PBS in fear that the orcs have infiltrated there too—perhaps giving stinky twerk dances to the new blunt-toking Mr. Rogers (Dat Nigga Roger), whose trolley to the “Hood of Make-It-Make-Sense” is a mega dildo that travels through a mouth superimposed with CGI over a vaginal canal between spread black thighs (like in the Shenseea and Megan Thee Stallion music video for “Lick”) and whose characters reflect the best-of-the-best stereotypes glorified in mainstream music.

King Friday, known for his lavish tastes (platinum grill, minks), is a gangbanger pimp from Chiraq who made his way up—in the most ruthless way imaginable—through an intricate network of drug trafficking, extortion, and fraud schemes.

Queen Sara, known for being a “straight freak” and “killer on the low,” is King Friday’s current ride-or-die (the last one scared to come back to the palace “cuz a bitch got put in her place with these claws”)—a ride-or-die down for whatever as a form of protest to what she regards, albeit in different terms (“niggas be hatin a loud black bitch), as misogynoir: taking a shit on the king’s chest like Suki; letting her chambermaids “suck that pussy while dat nigga fuckin”; all that shit “that only the nastiest bitches do.”

Lady Aberlin—a live character played by Shenseea herself, and perhaps the most positive black portrayal in the show (despite having started an OnlyFans at 14 “to get that bag”)—is an aspiring designer of a various clothing-line ideas she hopes will blow up at her HBCU (“Inner Thot Uprising,” “Irresponsibly Queer,” “Anal Percs,” “#SlideInHisDM & #SlipItInHisDrink,” “I support Homecoming Hoetations”) and is also an aspiring singer who gives us, yes, the same old hypersexuality, but with a Jamaican patois (“Hack up mi body and slap up mi pussy jaw” and “Pre-cum slime, when ya buss ya still incline”).

Lady Elaine is a “white bitch” with cornrows and a nympho predilection for getting “blacked” by “them mandingo bucks.”

Hilda Dingleboarder is a perc addict known for “slicing hoes” and giving the best “sloppy toppy”—to the king and, yes, even to the queen (“cuz that bitch got a big-ass fat clit”).

X the Owl is a seller of Newport loosies “and who be flyin from dem cops.”

and so on down the cee-lo line of jezebels and thugs whose predilection for designer goods blings as brightly as their aversion to “school and other white shit.”

It could just sit back and revel in our world where, in light of all the raunchy and downright predatory lyrics of penitentiary-and-pine-box behavior glorified (tremendously glorified, as if it were part of some psyop mission), it seems surprising that thug and ratchet versions of classic fairy tales have yet to hit major theaters—something like the following remake of Cinderella, a remake much more ruinous to black girls than the Brandy version (which merely threatened, so some defenders of black dignity worried, to entrench white beauty standards); a remake that will really drive the knife into the very heart of the black family, especially with the help of reality TV (which, instead of showing black woman who are entrepreneurs and scientists, shows black woman who only value money and shiny things and who are boisterous and uncontrollable like jungle beasts less prone to pain and who throw drinks at each other and who talk bad about each other and who launch the most atrocious obscenities at each other and who look like weave-wearing orcs with BBLs and Botox); a remake, really driving into the souls of young people how happy black girls are to be objectified and degraded, written in the screenplay style of forced hood vernacular for pandering reasons all-too-typical today).

La’Cinda’Relle: Hustle, Heart, and Heels

La’Cinda’Relle (brought to life with ratchet flair by Sexyy Red) struts the hustlin heat of Houston’s housin projects in hood flops and bonnet, two twerks ahead of the haters: “♫ Yeah I be fuckin! ♫” she screams (cuz everyone stay in a bitch’s biness anyway), “♫ while gossip-ass hoes ain’t gettin nuttin! ♫” This ghetto princess owns her reputation: loud, rude, and most definitely nasty. She be out in them streets stank walkin with zero apologies—neck bent as fuck, one hand on hip and the other snappin shut with a shut-it-down clap: “Sorry boo, yo’ man mine now! Bye, bitch. Bye!” And best believe them claws finna slash a hoe. She be smirkin down any bitch tryna stare. “Hide your mans bitches cuz I’m ‘bout that life. ♫ Bi but straight savage. / I be snatchin niggas and beatin baby mama asses! ♫”

A late riser “cuz a baddie need sleep,” La’Cinda gets up round 1pm—dry as fuck but with a stank-ass side-eye “Tsk” at the kitchen faucet. You know a Taurus bitch stubborn. She’ll just stay dry if there ain’t no juice in the house, something purple or red. She ain’t give a fuck. She got better things to do. Her thing? Scrollin that phone. Snappin selfies for the ‘gram: “Slay????” and “Who gone check me?? #ratchetandproud.” Maury paternity scandals on blast, she be on the couch watchin her nails in the sunlight from all angles. For real, them claws be catching sunbeams like they owe her and shit! A bitch be hangry, though: eyes be rollin at all them “whack hoes” that be on social media. La’Cinda crazy. She be firin straight shots at them bitches. “Hmm. Ain’t shit, hoe!” “Tsk. He was in my DMs last week. Basic-ass, bitch.” “Oh, yous a model now? Tsk. Must be for Dollar General.” She be saying that shit but she also be posting that shit in the comments! Ahahaha. Scrollin be stressin La’Cinda. “Need to step my shit up. Ain’t no Becky bitch gone have an ass bigger than mines!” For real. A black girl gotta have goals. And like or not, a BBL so she can stunt on all them skanks online—that’s La’Cinda’s. Facts.

The OG next door (played by none other than Lil Kim), a real bitch known for that food stamp hustle, be sliding through round this time with blunts and love—hood love: “Girl, you outclass all them hoes, out here thinkin they cute and shit.” “Miss Thang”—that’s what the streets be callin her. But La’Cinda be callin her “godmother.” She ain’t really know the backstory, though—just always did. Nah mean?

La’Cinda needs her godmother. And she be ridin hard for her godmother. That’s one bitch she won’t clap back at. That’s facts. And it ain’t just cuz she got half a foot from diabetes. Disability ain’t never stop La’Cinda from checkin a bitch. Nah, its cuz she love her godmother, like really love a bitch. They fuckin, no doubt. They been fuckin since La’Cinda was like 9. Damn, time be flyin and shit. But it go deeper than that. Who gave a bitch her first deuce-deuce to sip? Her godmother. Who put a bitch on to her favorite movie (B.A.P.S), which she still be watchin all the time? Her godmother. Who put a bitch on to her second favorite movie (Eve’s Bayou), which showed La’Cinda how much a freak she was (cuz, yeah, she would’ve fucked her own daddy, rode than nigga’s dick in the chair and stole that nigga from her mom, if she was Meagan Good). 

And yeah, her godmother needs La’Cinda too. She wants La’Cinda to be the difference and she has the wisdom to make that be. See the godmother knows fear. Fear stopped her from bein that bitch in the past. (Flashback to the nineties when she stopped fuckin her sis’s man on some conscience shit even though he had that New Jack dough.) She’ll be damned if La’Cinda repeats them same mistakes and sit here all day throwin shade at bitches. “You gotta get yours, girl. We’ve been down too long. You better than fear.”

The plan? La’Cinda’s gotta finesse the local drug kingpin and rapper Prince Percocet (Finesse2Tymes). That nigga the top dog, straight up. Then? Then that body upgrade. But more importantly (cuz La’Cinda do be gettin deep with it): the clout she deserves. Sound easy, right? Hell nah. La’Cinda and Prince P go back even though it’s been a minute. She’s been on her knees straight gaggin on that pipe since like eleven, twelve. He done ran all up in that, everywhere. That nigga run a train on her with his crew—three, four times. She hustled for Prince, turned tricks for that nigga. That was until her ma—as if the bitch ain’t know wildin firsthand (Bitch, please!)—threatened to put her in the system if she went round him again. And now Prince’s game done blown up big time, in just like two years. Prince got baddies straight clingin, livin that boss life. So yo: how’s our girl La’Cinda gone make her mark?

Her godmother’s got the 411: Rap. Put that shit up on the Gram. Mix in some photos of La’Cinda fanning some hunnids. That’s it. La’Cinda good but she still a diamond in the rust. La’Cinda’s gotta step up them bars if she wants Prince. Spit fire while makin shit clap and she’ll lock that nigga down for good. And trust, her godmother stay ready to ride for a bitch, keepin it a hunnid (kinda like that voodoo auntie in “Eve’s Bayou”). And you know the godmother gone spit a verse for the old heads. That way La’Cinda can know the basics, the fundamentals. I mean, how we gone have Lil Kim in the piece if she ain’t spittin like at least once in the movie? Feel me?  

“Now you see, ain’t no pussy warm as mine—

long as mine. Ain't no love as strong as this.

When I sucked your dick, it was like smokin a roach

Uhh. Why go from first class to coach?”

La’Cinda’s be needin her own vibe, though. She can’t be a copy of the past, nah mean? She gotta so somethin real ratchet for the times. Cuz in the 90s black women wasn’t as freaky as they is today. This sound good when you say it but it ain’t easy to do. La’Cinda’s voice ain’t feel right when she try and write it out, nails lookin all cramped and awkward and shit. Ahahaha. “Tsk, a bitch feel like she in school and shit.” Her godmother hands her the blunt and goes down on a bitch, munchin rough like she like. “Relax baby girl. Can’t be thinkin hard. Just relax and it’ll flow. Let mama take care of this. Trust.”

Relax? Pssh, La’Cinda’s got too many haters to relax. And it ain’t just them dusty bitches from the block. Haters be deep in the fam too. Them stuck-up half-sisters stay throwin shade. They think plans for college and usin words like “simultaneously” and “renaissance” and listenin to jazz and drinkin water and refusin to eat Popeyes everyday makes them better than a bitch. Steady chasin whiteness, no lie. This hoe wanna be an engineer. That hoe wanna be a veterinarian. Champagne brunches and shit. That’s all fine and good. Cuz you know a bitch bougie too. But they wanna be actin all manners: sippin on that shit, pinky out and shit. Hoes fake as fuck. Borin ass water-drinkin bitches. They ain’t never put no Perc up they ass. And they damn sure ain’t never eat a nigga ass!

If tryna relax wasn’t hard enough, La’Cinda’s wicked half-sisters like to snoop at doors and shit cuz they think the godmother’s a “bad influence.” So yeah, they know La’Cinda’s finna do somethin big. That’s when they really start on all that uppity mess. Them nosy-ass bitches pull the same white shit they did on La’Cinda’s mom dukes. But La’Cinda ain’t goin back to school like that. And they really think they can get La’Cinda to stop sellin her body, sellin what’s hers? Fuck outta here! They really think they can get La’Cinda to stop talkin whore shit in her raps? That’s how she’s livin! Think they can shut her up, change her flow? Nah. La’Cinda gone stay black no matter who switches up. Always black, always proud, always ratchet.

You know drama gone strike. And it does. One night the wicked half-sisters corner La’Cinda. They say she gotta get tested for STDs. “Y’all salty cuz I fucked boff ya’ll absent-ass daddies. Got more child support from them niggas than ya’ll ever get. Uh. Fuck around and I’ll make one of you bitches a sister-auntie and shit.” But they just keep on with that white shit. They keep pushin. They go on bout how it’s unfair they got to pay for La’Cinda’s ways. La’Cinda ain’t tryna hear all that mess bout crabs again. Cuz, yeah, she admits it. She spread that shit round the house. But it ain’t nothin some spray can’t fix like she been done said (like five times)! So La’Cinda warns them: “You Oreo bitches finna die. Move back.” But they follow her into the kitchen, all up in her face. And so she’s gotta do what she’s gotta do. Boffum bitches, boff get stabbed the fuck up. La’Cinda out here breaking chains at this point, nah mean? She stabs and stabs them jealous hoes. “Rise above these circumstances, sellout hoes.”

After goin through they shit for some Advil, La’Cinda bounces to her godmother’s apartment with the quickness. Her godmother tells her to dip and act like she been chillin at the block party down the way. The problem is, La’Cinda’s barefoot. But you know the godmother always clutch. She hands La’Cinda an original pair of 1985 Air Jordans. She had them shits on a shelf to remember her brother, a rapper blasted nine times in the face when he was only twenty four (rest in power). Time be tickin, but them laces a struggle cuz you already know La’Cinda got them nails. The godmother hands her the blunt and helps her, though. It’s one of them moments. Even ratchet bitches cry.

When she see Prince at the party with all them thirsty hoes, La’Cinda already know the move. She grabs the mic and the anthem just flows out even though she ain’t really work on it (except for that time she spit a lil somethin somethin for the roach she named “Gus Gus”: the fat one that be lovin Apple Floats cereal, a hard motherfucker like her—ain’t even move and shit when she threw her phone at it). No cap, them big-ass Jordans give her extra powers. Like she can fly. But real talk? That blunt her godmother had her hit before she left (we see this shit in a flashback)—yo, that shit was straight laced with PCP. Angel wings—nah mean?

The anthem? Yep, none other than Sexyy Red’s real banger “Pound Town.” So yeah, it’s easy to picture how fire it is. The Prince grins, real platinum like his chains (as we would expect). He rubs his hands and bops his head, all tatted up and shit. But when La’Cinda’s song end with a full-on squirt show? Yep, it’s a wrap for that nigga’s heart. This bitch can spray, that bitch can spray—fine. But no other bitch, believe it, finna do that shit with all them eyes. La’Cinda’Rella, though, ain’t no punk-ass shy hoe.

So boom, La’Cinda got her king. She got her alibi (cuz cops straight killin black folk). And she got proof of what we been done knew from jump, even if she didn’t believe it her damn self: La’Cinda was and always will be that bitch—100%.

But somethin always poppin off in the hood. We as a people stay forgettin who the real ops are! Just as Prince bout to step to La’Cinda and claim a hoe, on God the party gets shot up. Believe that!? The shooter slips on La’Cinda’s gush (gush, not pee), and she dips out. Prince, ducked behind his ride, peeps La’Cinda lose one of them Jordans in a rush down the block. He can’t help but scoop it up. That’s got the magic of the night in it.  

How’s he gone find a bitch? That’s the question. He ain’t know where she stay at. He could ask around, yeah. But he finna be romantic with it, make it like fate. The smell of the sneaker gives him that lightbulb. Popeyes be comin through the pores and shit if you eat it on the regular like that. Straight up: that shit hits different when it’s a daily vibe. So he gets the idea to post up there. After only like two days, sure enough the princess comes in hangry and rude. He bout to preach that shit that be holdin a hoe down? He finna change a bitch? Nah, he go: “I love me a ratchet-ass hoe. And you comfortable with it too.” 

La’Cinda becomes his main bitch, not no side piece: someone he tells his plans to, someone he has his hoes munch up whenever she like or whenever she have a bad day. He a real nigga. He invests in her. He likes when she be loud and nasty. He blesses her with what every black girl need, even if she won’t admit it: trips to Miami, Percs in her ass, and that BBL—yup, even a new set of titties on top.

And so in the middle of all that drama and hustle, La’Cinda’Relle rises. Dead that white-folk fairytale shit. She ain’t no Brandy Cinderella. A bitch be on a different tip. La’Cinda that turnt up bitch from the streets!

It could just sit back and revel in our world where it is a surprise that we have yet to be blessed with the straight-to-video sequels of these ratchet reimaginings, such as the following second installment in the La’Cinda’Relle series (conspicuously downgraded in writing and production quality).

La’Cinda’Relle 2: Lip Smackin

Prince Percocet (Finesse2Tymes), known on the streets for his influence, makes La’Cinda’Relle (Sexyy Red) the queen of his empire after that block-party performance that stole a nigga’s heart. Together, they control the block and beyond. They got the drugs, the pussy, and the rhymes—a true hood romance. Rumors be floatin bout a mixtape droppin with the two of them, a blend of her ratchet anthems bout wet-ass hood fuckin and his hard-hittin bars bout killin crazy niggas: straight drillin bodies (Brrrap-Brrrap-Brrrap). The streets be watchin.

La’Cinda's fame grows like the amount of face and titty and ass tats a bitch be havin. And we see her doin crazy joints, like her freestyle bout abortion. They be tryna shut down a bitch’s right in her state, Texas. But La’Cinda be gettin political and she ain’t havin it. And best believe they singin that joint right back at them Karens and Beckys outside Planned Parenthood.

Bathroom of the club young and havin fun—

dumb niggas call me ‘Dump’

cuz a cunt needs some daddy cum!

From bein the talk of the block, she becomes the talk of the city—the whole state really. You know a bitch got new nails almost every day and crazy followers. Just one pic get like over a thousand likes and shit. #QueenLaCinda and #HoodRoyalty and #fuckBrandyCinderella—everyone starts usin them joints, not just LaCinda and her crew.

Everythin sweet in La’Cinda’s world right? Nah. It seem like trouble be findin black folk. See La’Cinda thought flexin on the ‘gram would cure a bitch’s pain. Come to find out, her pain goes deep. She got eyes on her now but still be feelin it. Not to get all sad and shit, but yeah: her godmother passed away. Turns out they ain’t get all the diabetes when they chopped a bitch’s foot. And it gets worse. Prince ain’t fuckin La’Cinda cuz he say somethin wrong with the pussy. To be honest, La’Cinda smell that shit too. It be stress and shit. She try and smoke to calm down, but it get a bitch scared inside. She try to hide that cuz a bitch can’t be vulnerable. If you be vulnerable that’s when jealous hoes strike. And yeah, jealousy be brewin in the projects. Too many bitches, some thinkin they close with Prince, begin to scheme. You know a hoe can’t stand no real bitch like La’Cinda doin well for herself. Why can’t we be better for our community? For real, we got babies. (Damn white people behind it all, yo. They be fakin trips to the moon and shit. Anyway, I digress . . . .)

One day, as La’Cinda’s chillin with her crew at the local Popeye’s parkin lot, an old op named Tasha (yep, played by Sukihana) comes through with a crew of hood rats and a baby strapped to her chest like she tryna be the most ratchet. La’Cinda look at the bitch for a second like lookin at family and shit. But she can’t be soft cuz Tasha there for business and La’Cinda ain’t finna look weak.

A rap battle goes down. It gets real personal and shit. Tasha raps all this smack bout how Prince the daddy. La’Cinda grown now. She ain’t finna rip that lil nigga out and kick it. Her godmother told her to move in secret, nah mean? How she gone run an empire in jail? So she went after a bitch with words instead.

You can’t deep throat Prince.

I take that dick right down.

You know why a bitch famous?

A song called “Pound Town.”

La’Cinda’s crew was all like “Ooh” and “Yeah.” And you know you can’t stop them bitches from singin the joint: “My pussy pink. My booty hole brown.” But just keepin it real, it kinda weak to be like “I’m the shit cuz I did this or that song.”

It was like Tasha was thinkin that same shit. Cuz while all them bitches cheerin, she keep goin: “Nah, bitch. Weak.” Kept repeatin it. “Nah, bitch. Weak”—the baby giggling and shit. And for real, she was out to snatch a soul that day. Cuz after everyone went quiet, a bitch went right off the top. 

But you know what that nigga be tellin me in bed

rubbin my feet while I be touchin up his dreads?

“La’Cinda pussy stank like somethin stuck inside dead.”

So I know why he go to you when he needs that sloppy head:

pity for a bitch cuz he be fuckin me instead.

He was suckin you at twelve? Well, he was dickin me at ten!

And he stay dickin me down cuz he know my shits best—

Steady asshole lickin, I be takin shits on his chest!

Everyone went crazy. On the real, even some of La’Cinda’s own people was like: “Tasha got that ass.” La’Cinda started feelin that panic again. She reached for that kitchen knife—yep, that same one from part 1. She was bout to do that bitch like she did them wicked half-sisters—and that lil gigglin nigga too. But then Prince grabbed her up cuz he know a bitch.

Prince takes boffum bitches and goes, “Ya’ll gotta get along. We got this baby right here.” That’s when he tells La’Cinda that Tasha movin in. He a real nigga, though. So he’s straight up. “Tasha my number one now. But that ain’t mean you ain’t my number one too. La’Cinda!” La’Cinda smacked them lips as she do, lookin sad and shit (like when she hangry).

So now La’Cinda livin with Tasha and helpin take care of a baby. La’Cinda really ain’t havin it at first. She thinkin bout drownin this lil nigga in the tub. She think about pluggin its asshole with crazy Perc-30s. The fantasies by gettin wild. Prince ain’t touchin her cuz ain’t nothin she can do to stop that stank. And Tasha be real loud with the fuckin like she rubbin it in.

La’Cinda be wishin shit could go back like it was. She like to put on them sneakers her godmother gave her just to remember cuz it all changed so fast. Then one day Tasha come out the room, pussy drippin cuz she cruel, and go: “Bitch how the fuck you get them Jordan’s? Let me find out yo lil skinny ass stole them shits.” La’Cinda bout to check a bitch for real, like a stab a bitch. But again, the godmother on her shoulder tell a bitch to relax.

That’s when La’Cinda goes on the ground and screams for her godmother, the only bitch ever held La’Cinda down. And La’Cinda ain’t never get better head than that: made straight taffy out that pussy. She huggin the shoe and cryin. Tasha don’t care though. “Them 1985 Jordans. Bitch I know you stole them. No one got them shits. And when I go clean out my grandmama’s spot, they ain’t nowhere. You lived right by the bitch. Two and two.”

La’Cinda tells Tasha how they was a gift from the only person ever had her back. And yo, you ain’t gone believe it. As they get talkin it become clear that Tasha’s grandmama is La’Cinda’s godmother! La’Cinda can see the godmother in Tasha’s face and shit. That’s what she saw that day of the rap battle. La’Cinda gotta hug a bitch.

They share stories of the godmother and her half foot. They laugh and they smoke a blunt and La’Cinda feels good for the first time in a long time. It’s like she can relax again. And Tasha speak just like the godmother too! She got all that advice and shit! She tell La’Cinda to put yogurt in her pussy. Tasha go: “You do that for a week and yo shit taste like this.” La’Cinda tasted that pussy, best believe—been too horny over the months of not being touched by Prince. She sucked that bitch good too, just like her godmother. And yeah, once a nasty bitch always a nasty bitch. So you know she sucked out all that Prince nut.

So yeah, La’Cinda and Tasha join up. Prince be walkin them like dogs by their hair, red and green like Kool-Aid, across the Popeyes parkin lot and shit—boffum bitches down on all fours! See, a bitch gotta have humility if she finna grow. That was one thing the godmother didn’t see. What makes a basic hoe basic be that they ain’t gone never change. La’Cinda ain’t basic. She a bitch of the times. She good with bein one of two queens. White folk call it “polyamory.”

Nah, La’Cinda ain’t compromise if that’s what you be thinkin. Clothes be changin with the seasons, but that don’t mean a bitch different underneath. La’Cinda stay who she is. She a taurus. Ain’t no one ever gone change no taurus! Best believe she stay on that hoochie mama shit. As soon as them bitches can they drop that lil nigga at its granny’s to eat and get washed up and all that—and then yep, La’Cinda and Tasha be right out there all night drunk and blunted and Perc’ed up, bouncin ass in the streets and ain’t givin a fuck! “We outside tonight! We outside tonight!”

So shit’s real good. Now that La’Cinda pussy straight again, Prince beatin it up big time. And now she got a real-ass bitch sucking that clit at the same time. “#blessed”—best believe that’s the new hashtag. And now La’Cinda bout to hit it big time. She know it. She finna release all they sex tapes to get they names known, specially hers. Cuz even though a bitch in love, she still gone look out for number one.  

And best believe we gone be like Fast and Furious in this bitch. Cuz black folk need that dough. So after the credits role the camera gone come back after some months and shit and zoom right onto La’Cinda’s belly. 1How that pussy gone be so good and a bitch not get pregnant? So that sets everything up for part 3, where we see a real young nigga—La’Cinda’s son (played by Lil RT)—killin it on the mic. He be talking about buckin niggas with Glocks, gettin head, makin bread—all that shit that be gettin crazy respect. But its more of a shock cuz the lil nigga still ain’t even ten and shit.

It could just sit back and revel in our world where, irrespective of the true feelings of these top black role models performing—as if they were the plants of some Palpatine of white supremacy—the jungle-sexuality we all demand (demand with the entitled fervency of a Veruca Salt ready to stomp Farrakhan’s violin into pieces), the prime targets of these popular depictions (namely, malleable young money-spenders whose lifelong thought-and-behavior patterns and understanding of social norms are still too early in the oven to resist sexual insanities delivered in such tempting colors) not only will walk around with increased arousal in head and hormone (a cold-water splash to dormant forces, perfect for more underage black mothers of poverty), but also will learn how black people are prone to feel and think and act—this way,

(1) yet another generation of people, black and white, will find it difficult to picture black bodies without also picturing extreme sexual organs in extreme sexual situations of dehumanization;

(2) yet another generation of people, as if we were back in antebellum days where sexual allure and guesses at potential fertility factored into auction-block sales, will deny sexual innocence to black girls, will continue to lift their skirts and grope their vulvas at black spring break (“cuz a bitch’ll always be a bitch”), will continue to link their bodies to lust (such that (a) an AI representation of a black Taylor Swift on Instagram would result in a slew of comments giving her hypersexual names like Taylor Slit or (b), and to give the clearest proof of the point, a statue or painting of the Virgin Mary as black would read at least subconsciously to whites and blacks alike as blasphemous, the mere darkening rendering the purest woman a “freak-a-leek jezebel hoe-ass bitch”);

(3) yet another generation of black boys and black girls will believe that their primary value resides in their sexual organs and that their desirability lies foremost in being voracious in bed;

(4) yet another generation of white people will feel (and with increasing odds of being proven right) that dating a black person will be like an exotic escapade “in the wild” (potentially a Percocet-filled ghetto-gagging anal-gapping adventure) with someone who must have a lot of experience (especially if they are really dark and have a lot of curves);

(5) a new generation of everyday black people, failing to live up to the suffocating ideals of being magically irresistible or being big-dicked dominators or being ever-dripping and so every-ready to pole ride or so on, will find themselves mentally terrorized into confusion and into self-loathing feelings of inauthenticity and excommunication.

It could just sit back and revel in our world where—even though these performers are for the most part just playing characters (and are not really unquenchable beasts ready to reduce everyone they encounter to carnal objects)—the artist-character divide definitely seems to be blurring: all these artists getting BBLs and Percocet tattoos, and saying all these raunchy things on social media, and leaking their own porn videos, and twerking outside all night drunk and on drugs and with lime-green hair just like the characters they play in their music videos.

It could just sit back and revel in our world where—even though these performers are largely just kids pushing boundaries in the safe space of art (and perhaps in some cases just trying to be comedic or even, at least before being quickly coopted, to satirize the stereotypical black image)—yet another cohort of young people swamped by the behemoth-money-backed predominance of hypersexual black performers (young people gullible enough to believe in Santa, inexperienced enough to take satire literally) will be primed to see black bodies as what black people themselves (emulating at least to some degree the mega stars who serve as their chief role models) will be daily nudged to see themselves as: mere carnal vessels, fuck spaces rather than rational citizens with assets beyond ass.

It could just sit back and revel in our world where black hypersexuality and black hyperviolence are painted in mainstream music and media with enough repetition, not to mention with enough dazzling colors for audiences so young, to undermine what those worried about the harms it inflicts upon black communities (Candace Owens, for instance) will be tempted to deny (especially given the typical American pattern of overcorrecting backlash)—namely, the undeniably hygienic roles (roles quite similar to that of an ayahuasca trip into “divine terror,” roles not to be underestimated) that shocking artists and their shocking content play for humanity’s maturation and wellbeing:

(a) counterbalancing the important but potentially-stifling conservative yin undertow marked by concern with orderly maintenance of the very nests necessary for yang adventure;

(b) exposing the shadow elements inside all humans (the Behemoths and Leviathans, the inner Hitlers, the backside of Yahweh in the Book of Job), a knee-knocking exposure crucial for putting us in a better position for healthier relationships (because by having faced our dark facets, and what heinous beliefs and desires and actions we are capable of, we are less likely to deny them of ourselves by deflecting them onto others) and crucial for setting us up to be more effective agents (because by having faced the dark core to ourselves, by having developed a working relationship with it, we are more likely at least to redirect its ferality instead of being taken by disruptive surprise as slaves of its taste, say, for altar boys).[3]

It could just sit back and revel in our world where, as one might expect given the fact that presidential candidates must be photographed embracing the Twerkzillas and Lil Drive-bys to stand even a chance at winning, the antisocial and nihilistic and consumerist music is so wanted by everyone (like refined sugar) and is so money making (like the oil and factory-farming industries) despite poisoning so many even beyond blacks, and is often seen as so aspirational (kids wanting to be just like the thug and slut characters who appear to have it all) that there seems little feasible way to implement the variety of possible strategies for beating back this plague:

(1) blocking children—or even those who cannot pass at least certain sorts of exams (critical thinking exams, ethics exams, maturity exams)—from accessing the content;

(2) educating people, children especially, as to why the messaging is toxic, especially when not seen as largely just like TV wrestling and tabloid newspapers (not real, made up);

(3) incentivizing other voices to expand beyond the monolith, in particular, and incentivizing less sheepish behavior, in general.

It could just sit back and revel in our world where—no, despite what we say, it is not just that we “like the beat" and do not even listen to the words—we all have in us this death drive, this destructive urge, that likes to eat cake while enjoying people (in this case, black people) ruin their own people with glorified depravity—this at least scratching the Thanatos itch given that the threat of prison and other negative repercussions stop most of us from arson and rape and murder, from tossing puppies out the window and drowning infants in the tub.

It could just sit back and revel in our world where it is easy, in effect, to imagine black-activist C. Delores Tucker, along with a cadre of historical heroines she has invoked in her crusade against the hyperviolent and hypersexual and hyperdruggie lyrics of mainstream rap (Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, Fannie Lou Hamer, Mary McLeod Bethune), bathed in sunlight streaming through the stained glass of a church, heads bowed in silent prayer that black people be released from this hypnotic blight, until suddenly a Botox gang of hair-hatted Uruk-Hai with Snuffleupagus eyelashes (Sexyy Red, Sukihana and her chest-strapped infant clearly suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome, Flo Milli, Erica Banks, and a third-trimester Summer Walker) kick through the sanctuary door smelling of nasty-bitch Popeyes and chanting Sukihana lines in their orc tongue (“We ain't got no morals, we some fuckin hoes. . . . Gotta deepthroat I need a BBC / Go retarded on the dick I got ADD”), ultimately silencing the uppity screams of these civil-rights leaders with the same gag balls they used moments earlier on Shuniiadaballer and Bahamadia and Noname and Tierra Whack (Kool-Aid red, Kool-Aid green, like their hair) and rifling through their purses for Percocet money and tearing off their clothes for the sake of sucking them and pegging them to nonconsensual orgasm (“These old bitches be likin it and shit”)—several of the lewd cohort, Sexyy Red with the greatest distance and Sukihana with the worst stench, squirting upon the naked matriarchs for iPhones held high by Erica Banks and Summer Walker with fingernails as ridiculous as their pasted-down edges (no less ghoulish in spite of their bright colors), squirting and squirting (Sukihana “inadvertently” pooping a bit as if this were childbirth, the white paste of a half dissolved Perc-30 tablet leading the way) only to cackle and sing the most tormenting of her anti-family anti-optimistic lines (“I'm faithful to a nigga that's married / Steal niggas, I'm the Grinch, Jim Carrey / I wanna choke right now / Put the dick in my throat right now . . . . We ain't got no morals, we some fuckin hoes. . . . I don't want a pastor, I want a drug dealer / I like a real nigga, real killer. . . . I'ma fuck your baby daddy and I'ma fuck him again / I'ma suck his dick, without no hands / Spend his bread then fuck yo' man / You heard what I said, what the fuck I said / I'll beat yo' ass then fuck yo' man. . . . I take yo' nigga, put this pussy on his tongue / Deep-throatin dick, I got cum all in my lungs”) all, yes, in mockery of Mrs. Tucker’s 1993 speech on the antiblack nature of mainstream rap, which Flo Milli plays from YouTube in the background to heighten the demonism of the orgy:

Enough is enough. . . . I am here to put the nation on notice that violence perpetrated against women through the music industry in the forms of “gangsta rap” and misogynist lyrics will not be tolerated any longer! Principle must come before profit. . . . [We must stop] continuously exposing our youth to negative media that distorts their images of male-female relationships, that undermines the stability of our families communities and nation by encouraging violence abuse and sexism as acceptable behaviors and perpetuates the cycle of low self-esteem. . . Images that degrade our dignity and are an insult to our children, our families and communities, concern us too—and that includes all this gangster rap and misogynist lyrics: music that glorifies and promotes violence with guns knives or drugs and denigrates and defames women. And with a release of Snoop Doggy Dogg’s debut album Doggy Style that includes “artwork” that is nothing but pornographic smut available to any child to go in and buy with the album and with a record—that has got to stop. You want to know why I'm on the warpath? When I saw this, I said “that's it: we march again!” And we’re gonna keep on marching!

Long hair, pretty face with a fat ol' ass / Make him eat my pussy with no strings attached / Chanel purse, with the pumps to match / I like fucking drug dealers that move that crack / First petty on my toes, I'm a freak ass hoe / Fuck him in the back seat I need a Maybach so / I'm a rich ghetto hoe, I do not fly coach / First class pussy bitch I'm a manola hoe / Can't wear Vicky Secrets, with all this coochie I got on me / Pussy falling off the bone but he won't come on / Cuz I’ma ride his face till he sleep / Bitch I’ma, creep, creep like TLC / Put this ass in yo face like a BLT / Gotta, deepthroat, I need a BBC / Go retarded on the dick I got ADD / Suki-hanay, Choki-hanay / Good pussy, lotta kids like Beyoncè / Might fuck him for a chain, Eliante / Put this head on him turn him to a Kanye / We fuckin niggas, in Paris / I can see the dick through the Ameris / I'm faithful to a nigga that's married / Steal niggas, I'm the Grinch, Jim Carrey / I wanna choke right now / Put the dick in my throat right now

For four-hundred years profit came before principle, as black women bore the brunt of slave masters degradation. But even through the middle passage, the peculiar institution of slavery, the spirit of black women and their families could not be broken. Today, however, through the lyrics of rappers who display no respect for women, no respect for families, and little respect for themselves, the souls of our sisters are being destroyed and so too their progeny. All of us have watched as the industry has grown. We have watched not really knowing, not really understanding, not first realizing the damage that is inherent in what some thought were merely words. Now we see the direct and indirect effects. We see the rise in murders, in abuse, in batteries—teen prostitution and teen suicide. We hear the wailing mothers, the grieving sisters, the tormented brothers and fathers and children planning their own funerals. . . . We feel their hopelessness and helplessness and we embrace their pain. . . . As I see it there are three things wrong with gangsta rap and misogynist lyrics: it is obscene, it is obscene, it is obscene. . . . If the filth that is portrayed in these gangster rap videos and art is not obscene, then I submit that nothing is obscene. . . .

My rent due, nigga, let me suck on it (Let me suck on it) / Put that dick in my throat, I wanna lick on it (I wanna lick on it) / Pussy nigga, throw them bands on a trill bitch (On a trill bitch) / Big dick in my stomach, I wanna feel it (Yeah) / Bitch, I eat the cock like a Hot Pocket (A Hot Pocket) / Dance on that dick, pop, lock, and drop it (Pop, lock, and drop it) / Before a nigga fuck, I need a big deposit / Bring that dick in my cat, I want it wildin out / And eat my pussy like filet mignon (Motherfuckin cat, nigga) / I don't give a fuck about your baby mom (Fuck that pussy ass ho)/ Yeah, I'm the bitch they be hatin on / Yeah, your man be buyin me that Saint Laurent / Spend it on a bitch (Bitch) / Yeah, I told her y'all trick (Trick) / Yeah, we suckin dick, he gon bust all on my tits / We ain't got no morals, we some fuckin hoes / Put a nigga dick all between my toes / Bitch, you know the gang, you know how it go (You know how it go) / I don't eat no Wendy’s, ain't no 4 for $4 (Ain't no 4 for $4) / Pussy nigga, take me to the Poconos / And let me sit the pussy on your fuckin nose / (Let me sit this motherfuckin pussy on your motherfuckin face)

African American women have always been the protected nurturers of their homes, their families, and their communities. We marched for our rights to Selma (I was there with Dr. King), were beaten with Billy clubs, and were bitten with dogs unleashed by bull collars. We did not tolerate injustice and insults from our worst enemies then, and we sure ain't gonna accept insults from our youth now!

Listen, mama, I don't want a pastor, I want a drug dealer (Drug dealer) / I like a real nigga, real killer, big stepper / He eat the pussy, cut the checks, make me feel better / He eat that thing like a dog, get it real wetter / Thug nigga, drug dealer, big guns (Big guns) / Ghetto ass pussy, whole lotta fun (Whole lotta fun) / Standin bow-legged, suckin on my thumb / I heard you got that bag, nigga, let me hold some / I like a big dick gangster that move that white (Move that white) / He can get the pussy and the head all night (Head all night) / Give me what I want, I ain't asking twice / Drop a bag on whatever, he don't ask the price / It's that good dick that got a bitch acting right / I let them other niggas go, I had to sacrifice / My friend said, "Let him go," fuck that advice / It's for now and forever and the afterlife

Although the MPCPW condemns the actions of those young people who produce such music, we also realize that we must provide other channels for them to use these multiple talents they have in a positive and wholesome way. After all, they are not the root causes of the complex socio-economic forces that are manifested in such vile entertainment. Those problems were there long before many of them were born. Those problems must be addressed if the communities that produced those gangster rappers are to survive and thrive. . . . First of all we must use all means possible to eradicate and ban the sale of illegal guns. We must remove guns from the hands of our children and our “gangsters” who are so proud of the power of the gun. That's number one. Number two: we must reinvent our educational system to include more vocational training to provide a successful transition between school and work for those who will not continue to go on to college. We must extend the school hours in the school year so that latchkey-children teachers will be from their schools instead of from the street. We must provide educational opportunities for our prisoners so that they will be productive citizens when their tour of prison is over. . . . We must provide community outreach so that our youth who have embraced the gangs as their only family will find refuge in community institutions neighborhood academies and educational programs. Convert our unused military bases into institutions of peace where men and women can be trained to become productive citizens who will contribute to the well-being of this nation, expand our nation's infrastructure where needed, and make this nation of powerful global force.

I'm 5 foot but my throat 6'6" / I'm a ratchet bitch, suck a mean dick / You mad 'cuz your pussy ain't fat like this / And your man eat the pussy like chicken nuggets / I'ma suck his dick for some red bottoms / I'm a real hoe, bitch, I don't spit I swallow / And I only fuck with plugs, lil bitch I'm shallow / Put that pussy on the plug is the fuckin motto / Pussy so fat you could see it from the back / I'm a west side hoe, everybody know that / I fuck with the boosters and bitches that sell they stamps / And bitches that sell they pussy with they legs on a ramp / Put money on his books when my man in the pin / I'ma fuck your baby daddy and I'ma fuck him again /I'ma suck his dick, without no hands / Spend his bread then fuck yo' man / You heard what I said, what the fuck I said / I'll beat yo' ass then fuck yo' man / You heard what I said, what the fuck I said / I'll beat yo' ass then fuck yo' man / I need a hood ass nigga with' a long ass pipe / And I'ma lick that dick like a Mike and Ike / Cuz I'm a project chick / A freak hoe chick / A hood rat chick, I suck the skin off that dick / I got a fat ass pussy like a cameltoe / And I'ma ride that dick like an animal / I suck more dick than Anna Nicole / Suck dick if I'm rich, suck dick if I'm broke / And I'ma bust it wide open til' you see that pussy print / I bet yo' baby daddy gon pay my rent / You heard what I said, what the fuck I said / And I'll beat yo' ass then fuck yo' man

I stand before you today with millions of my sisters to say that no one has the right to degrade denigrate dishonor our disrespectful African-American women. No one has a right to poison our children's mind and destroy our African cultural heritage. That is why the women of MPCPW and our supporters will demonstrate, will go to jail again and again and again—just as we did when we demonstrated at the Wiz in December and Sam Goody yesterday. No one and no industry will be allowed to continue this social and psychological genocide of the women and girls of this nation. I stand before you today with the spirits of Sojourner Truth Harriet Tubman Fannie Lou Hamer and Mary McLeod Bethune to say this: we will defy any force that will disrespect us and our families.

I take yo' nigga, put this pussy on his tongue (On his tongue)/ Deep-throatin dick, I got cum all in my lungs (In my lungs) / And you know he chew this ass, don't be dumb (Don't be dumb) / I got niggas tryna pay to eat this pussy out my thong (Yeah) / Dick all in my booty hole, I finna get my ass bleached / I don't want yo' kids, nigga, put 'em on my ass cheeks (Yeah) / Cuz I'm triflin, 40 Glock on my nightstand / Roll up his backwood before he put that pipe in (Fuck me nigga) / Bitch, I'm bustin juggs in a Hellcat (Skrrt) / In the backseat, gettin fucked from the back (From the back) / Don't be scared, nigga, you know I got that good cat (Know I got that good cat) / You better break a bitch off, Kit-Kat (Kit-Kat) / I just want a big dick in my esophagus (Esophagus) / These niggas love me cuz I'm pretty and I'm chocolate (And I'm chocolate) / He just popped a Perc' 30, got that perky dick / And my rent due, bitch, you know I'm takin dick / I'm hot in the 'tel ('Tel) and I'm sellin tel (Tel) / Bitch, I'm drunk as hell (Hell), where is the rotel ('Tel) dip? / I need some rotel dick (I need some motherfuckin rotel dick) / Bitch, you know I'm strapped with a stick (Doo-doo-doo) / Every Glock I got got a switch (Grrah, grrah) / Bitch, stop the car, I gotta piss (I gotta piss, ho) / He just ate my ass, he wanna switch (He wanna switch) / Now I'm eatin his ass / Eatin his ass, eatin a nigga ass / Eatin a nigga ass, we be eatin niggas ass.

It could just sit back and revel in our world where it would seem close to a cruel joke to learn that the more-urgent-than-ever song “Self-Destruction” (a) was a hip-hop hit at one time (despite sticking to an anti-violence topic for a whopping six minutes of multifaceted detail) and (b) did not dip at all into blaming white people for the destructive behavior of black communities (but instead took the Malcolm-X-Glenn-Loury approach of saying “Look at what we’re doing to ourselves!”) and (c) was made by a group that was all-black and yet at the same time called (non-ironically) The Stop the Violence Movement—an insane grouping of facts barely kept in check by the bullet-dodging phew back to normalcy we feel when we realize that this was the only single the group ever made.

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

[KRS-One]

Well, today's topic, self destruction

It really ain't the rap audience that's buggin

It's one or two suckas, ignorant brothers

Trying to rob and steal from one another

You get caught in the mid

So to crush the stereotype here's what we did

We got ourselves together

so that you could unite and fight for what's right

Not negative 'cause the way we live is positive

We don't kill our relatives

[MC Delight]

Pop pop pop

when it's shot who's to blame?

Headlines, front page, and rap's the name

MC Delight here to state the bottom line

That black-on-black crime was way before our time

[Kool Moe Dee]

Took a brother's life with a knife as his wife

Cried cause he died a trifling death

When he left his very last breath

Was I slept so watch your step

Back in the sixties our brothers and sisters were hanged

How could you gang-bang?

I never ever ran from the Ku Klux Klan

and I shouldn't have to run from a black man

cause that's

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

[MC Lyte]

Funky Fresh dressed to impress ready to party

Money in your pocket, dying to move your body

To get inside you paid the whole ten dollars

Scotch taped with a razor blade taped to your collar

Leave the guns and the crack and the knives alone

MC Lyte's on the microphone

Bum rushin and crushin, snatchin and taxin

I cram to understand why brother's don't be maxin

There's only one disco, they'll close one more

You ain't guarding the door

so what you got a gun for?

Do you rob the rich and give to the poor?

Yo Daddy-O, school em some more

[Daddy-O, Wise]

Straight from the mouth of Wise and Daddy-o

Do a crime end up in jail and gotta go

Cause you could do crime and get paid today

And tomorrow you're behind bars in the worst way

Far from your family, cause you're locked away

Now tell me, do you really think crime pays?

Scheming on taking what your brother has?

You little suckers.. you talkin all that jazz.

[D-Nice]

It's time to stand together in a unity

Cause if not then we're soon to be

Self-destroyed, unemployed

The rap race will be lost without a trace

Or a clue but what to do

Is stop the violence and kick the science

Down the road that we call eternity

Where knowledge is formed and you'll learn to be

Self-sufficient, independent

To teach to each is what rap intended

But society wants to invade

So do not walk this path they laid.

It's:

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

[Ms. Melodie]

I'm Ms. Melodie and I'm a born again rebel

The violence in rap must cease and seckle

If we want to develop and grow to another level

We can't be guinea pigs for the devil

The enemy knows, they're no fools

Because everyone knows that hip-hop rules

So we gotta get a grip and grab what's wrong

The opposition is weak and rap is strong

[Doug E. Fresh]

This is all about, no doubt, to stop violence

But first let's have a moment of silence

Things been stated re-educated, evaluated

THoughts of the past have faded

The only thing left is the memories of our belated

and I hate it, when

Someone dies and gets all hurt up

For a silly gold chain by a chump; word up

It doesn't make you a big man, and

To want to go out and dis your brother man, and

You don't know that's part of the plan

Why? Cause rap music is in full demand.

Understand

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

[Just-Ice]

My name is Just-Ice a man not a prankster

I was known... as the gangster

But believe me that is no fun

The time is now to unite everyone

You don't have to be soft to be for peace

Robbin and killin and muderin is the least

You don't have to be chained by the beast

But party people it's time I release!

[Heavy D]

Aiyyo here's the situation: Idio[di]cy

Nonsense, violence, not a good policy

Therefore we must ignore, fightin and fussin

Hev is at the door so there'll be no bum-rushin

Let's get together so we'll be fallin apart

I heard a brother shot another. It broke my heart

I don't understand the difficulty, people

Love your brother, treat him as an equal

They call us animals mmm mmm I don't agree with them

I'll prove them wrong, but right is what your proving them

Take heed before I lead to what I'm sayin

Or we'll all be on our knees, prayin

[Fruitkwan]

Yo Heavy D, deep in the heart of the matter

The self-destruction is served on a platter

Makin a day not failing to aniticipate

They got greedy so they fell for the bait

That makes them a victim, picked then plucked

New jack in jail, but to the vets they're a duck

There's no one to rob, cause in jail you're a number

They never took the time to wonder about

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

[Chuck D, Flavor Flav]

Yes we urge to merge we live for the love

Of our people the hope that they get along

(Yeah, so we did a song)

Getting the point to our brothers and sisters

Who don't know the time (boyyyee, so we wrote a rhyme)

It's dead in your head, you know, I'll drive to build

And collect ourselves with intellect, come on

To revolve to evolve to self-respect

Cause we got to keep ourselves in check

Or else it's...

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

Self-Destruction, ya headed for Self-Destruction

It could just sit back and revel in our world where it would seem close to opposite-day mockery to learn that the once-Rocky-level-hyping song “Optimistic” was made by a musical ensemble called “Sounds of Blackness.”

Don't give up and don't give in

Although it seems you never win

You will always pass the test

As long as you keep your head to the sky

My, my, my

You can win as long as you keep your head to the sky (you can win child)

You can win as long as you keep your head to the sky

Face toward the sky

Be optimistic

Don't you let no body stop you

As long as you keep your head to the sky

Be optimistic

You can win

As long as you keep your head to the sky

Be optimistic

You can win

As long as you keep your head to the sky

Be optimistic

You can win

As long as you keep your head to the sky

Be optimistic

---

[1] https://www.latimes.com/local/la-fi-tupacdelores20march2096-story.html

[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AFGkNEt30Fo

[3] It is important for readers to understand that it is the mainly the monopoly of depraved representation, and that it is so targeted to kids, that I take issue with. By no means am I coming from a perspective of “Look how appalling these lyrics are. They should be banned!” As a staunch defender of artistic freedom, I would never say this. In fact, I have offered various levels of defense even for the worst lyrics: those concerning child exploitation. Check out my article “An Apologia for Biggie’s Child-Rape Lyrics.” Some of the article is summarized by my defense of KRS-One’s song “13 and Good,” which I present in full here.

(1) Art is a place to shine a mirror on the darker facets of our psyche. Denying that we have these shadow elements—“No, not me! I definitely wouldn't have owned slaves!”—not only ensures that we dwell at a lower state (one of fragmentation, as Jungians might put it, between the Ego and the Self), but also makes us susceptible to their control. So while mainstream media's portrayal of black hypersexuality and hyperviolence can be harmful and perpetuate stereotypes, there is also a potential transformative power in confronting shocking or shadow aspects of human nature.

(2) Male attraction to girls even in the early stages of child-bearing potential is a drive engrained deeply within most men.

(3) Look what results because of the actions of the narrator in the song (and no, the narrator need not be identical to the artist): he gets his comeuppance for his transgressions at the end of the song.

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