400 Years Revisited - CYNE

I was told about it.

Young freedom fighter seeking soul asylum

They call him Marcus Garvey, wants to start this

Soldier boy’s quest to bless the land of heartless man

He had a kind of self first.

Yo, the plan demand

Action.

My resolution with the MAC-10

People don’t react ‘til you actually start blasting

That’s when the cockier media start asking

Saying, «Who's this kid with the Garveyite fashion?»

You could be down with the brown or Anglo-Saxon

Throw your fist in the air for slave caster

Militant mind stay converted, brave past his time

I ain’t asking for shine ‘cause people owe me

That’s why these young thugs rub blood so holy

Now they hate to see this: mercenaries out for Jesus

Live from the pearly white gates, about to squeeze.

Does

Godly back Confederate flags?

I’m held hostage

No forty acres, a mule—abused profits

With no forty acres, a mule—abused profits

For 400 years we shed tears

When it’s death among peers, we pour beers.

But now what?

Just look what the world made me: enslaved me

But at the end, yo, what the fuck’s gonna save me?

Standing in front of monuments that are placed in prestigious colleges

Presenting they grace but yet racist to the obvious

Factor: light skin to the hues of blacker shades

Of face.

I chase my dreams in the shadow of hate

Battle, debating, I’m moving at a radical rate

Must I hide my face just to fucking relate?

Wait.

The invisible man with divisible plans

Could visualize lies, shackling both hands

For 400 years we shed tears

When it’s death among peers, we pour beers.

But now what?

Just look what the world made me: enslaved me

But at the end, yo, what the fuck’s gonna save me?

Fulfill a mission ‘cause I’m feeling like we’re still in bondage

Half a millennium, my moment where I’m thinking homage

And there’s a clarity, a vision in this rat race

Tackle our shackles to erase names with no face

Strategy placed in a single word to free the mind

Designing rhymes for the eyes of my people blind

In any attempt, feeble or not, shit

Sorry to say I wish Bush would get shot—bla!

Hock these words that I spit.

Intense

Contempt ripped with borderline hatred for the cowardice

Powers that be control the powerless beings

With the money that we never see, so we could never be

had us trapped here for four score

Plus four hundred more.

I had to move on this World War

Any excuse, come blast with gats, drop the gas

On they ass so the mass’ll get the last laugh