My people are sick,
diseased and infected by the sting of a whip,
contaminated about racial slurs about the skin tone and lips,
and sickened in the Middle Passage by the stench of the ships,
we were vaccinated with bullets and treated with clips,
and remedied with hard lashes, punches and kicks,
My people are sick,
we were seasoned and beaten like fresh meat on the street,
for America's capitalist economy to devour and eat,
beat and defeat,
systematically keeping my people under its feet,
rocking a burnt cross with pointed white sheets,
searching for the next lynching like hide and go seek,
but this wasn't a game that Klan was playing for keeps,
My people are sick,
my ancestors' blood drips off the sides of their clubs and their sticks,
and they did it for kicks,
cuz to them all we are are chinks, redskins, niggers and spics,
so they stone us with bricks,
the same bricks we was forced to pave for no wage,
and it fills me with rage cuz we still gotta find time to dig all the graves,
for my fallen brothers and sisters that refused to be slaves,
that refused to be chained and tamed and maintained by this sick game,
this game is capitalism,
in other words democracy,
U.S. nationalism creating a system with a common mission,
to enslave, make a profit and imprison my vision
My people are sick of White Judges with Black robes,
as White lawmakers make Black Codes,
a Black man hangs from a White rope,
but my people still cling to hope,
even though this judicial system is a big fat joke,
they let our bodies go,
but they got our minds and our souls,
my people are sick of broken promises, amendments and ratifications,
made by the social stratification of a racist nation,
coated in lies and standing on a foundation of hatred,
and topped off with a little...discrimination
And My People are sick of our White fathers being ashamed,
because he raped a Black woman and a mulatto child came,
so the best he could do was disclaim the shame
of having your child and a nigger being one in the same,
this systems insane,
creating generations of pain,
the White father breaks bread with the White brothers and sisters,
meanwhile the child works the field,
his hands covered in blisters,
the wealth gets passed down a pure White lineage,
and the mixed kid grows up an doesn't know what a penny is,
so to him,
hard work and life remain contingent,
no father figure generating paternally independent descendants,
and this cycle is endless,
My people are sick,
and slowly were dying,
as blood keeps spilling and watery brown eyes keep crying,
we must continue the struggle and always persist,
otherwise discrimination continues, and the hate will EXIST