Here's a poem about your comb, and how your pants don't fit. Clearing my eyes with Bosch & Laomb Fake gold chains, and pointless shit. Big Black Afro SUV with a TV Plump tan HO's in bikinis. Fucking my hat off sideways. Oh rap me your sob story About how you've worked for your glorified bona fide hoop ride and your crib designed by a VJ from MTV that thinks you are celebrity. You rap about the struggles to find a banana yellow FILA jump suit to wear to the Grammys. Flossing your kicks in thousand dollar pajamies. Your teeth are gold, my illusion brown, even Prince thinks you are a clown. Merchant, sell your dreams short Coco butter, pool side creams. This is what Ebony has made its America. My nephew's so white he hates us because he was born with the guilt. He wants to be a black rapper, and dapper, and Bobby Brown his bitch with a switch and paint the town Miami like Will Smith in a fast boat with a play station two. And a trained goat that forecasts the weather. "Ten more years of shitty evaporated recycled antiblack music by black nonmusicians". DJ Nelly Jelly and MC AssHat did an entire album about a filthy rich wombat that had the nerve to wear a band-aid on a face zit with a preference for rear ending greasy oven mitts. Don't you get it? Life is only about bitches and money and picking your afro with an ad by Nabisco about how Tupac disco'd, and started a revolution of pure Authentic greed that is even worse than white America, because it only cares about the way it looks before it goes to the club to dub. Get over it. And get that stupid fucking comb out of your hair. I mean do you realize how utterly assanine that comes across as, what in the fuck is that supposed to symbolize, your personal awareness of hygiene? You would think Bob Marley, or twenty years of perfect jazz, and Duke Ellington could fix this, but I have some serious doubts about what rap music's about, Today. It certainly has no bearing for anyone that wakes up and actually has to go to work and be relatively human.