on any given friday night,
a young white suburbanite,
cruises in his beamer,
into the city, bose blastin’ fiddy.
he sports the latest, greatest, hippest, dopest, phattest rags
that his daddy’s silver spoon could buy,
but that silver spoon is the very reason why.
he protests the riches that they don’t deserve,
lashes out at his very own private federal reserve.
he’s looking for some black flava,
or some brown suga’,
or some white powder,
music getting louder.
young white suburbanite,
in the middle of the night,
loses himself in another man’s culture.
not understanding the subtleties of cp time,
he hits the club way too soon,
stands around with beer in hand,
realizes that the night was not so well-planned.
but he’s fly and hip and dope and –
and thinks he’s ahead of his time,
but the reality is that he simply
got there way ahead of time.
the music swirls within his head,
and the sistas think it’s so dred
that he’s holding his own,
while out of his element.
but to his detriment,
the beer pulls him to the dancefloor.
now, whitebread ain’t so fly no more.
and we think “ooh, that’s gotta hurt!”
beer has him moving to the beats,
the sight has us fallin’ out our seats.
“yo – young white suburbanite!
some fly sista would like ta get witcha”,
but homeboy’s homeboy has had
one too many rollin’ rocks.
young white suburbanite
struggles with all his might
to get his homeboy standing upright.
now, homeboy’s homeboy wants to fight.
young white suburbanite
came to the city,
blastin’ fiddy,
lookin’ for some black flava,
or some brown suga’,
or some white powder.
whitebread
got that gangsta beat going ‘round in his head.
cruisin’ in his jet-black beamer.
he’s just trying to understand
why we always catch it from the man.
tries to understand what that’s like,
he beats a path to every open mike,
struggles to get a feel for what it’s like.
a fruitless pursuit and he can’t see why
he can never feel the pain like you and i.
he innocently protests and lets out a sigh –
“it wasn’t me and i refuse to carry that lie”.
it’s neither out of compassion,
nor because it’s popular fashion,
but, instead, because the guilt of the fathers
prey upon the innocence of the sons.
on any given friday night,
deep within the urban blight,
from dusk until daylight.
lookin’ for some
black flava,
brown suga’,
white powder.
out of the gloomy mist and into the light,
comes an urban legend . . . a young white suburbanite.
© 2008
“because the guilt of the fathers
prey upon the innocence of the sons.”
A very powerful piece, excellent! Thank you for sharing it
and welcome to The Juice Bar!! – LK 🙂
I’m so honored. Thanks for allowing me into the Juice Bar. Quite the venue. Peace.
The bar is always open!! 🙂
That was an awesome piece. Keep up the good work!
Wow! Really good stuff here. It demands that I go back and read it again and again. Nuanced yet in your face. Nice seeing your work at the Juice Bar!
Wooh, what a ride! The rhythm and beat set my sweet ass seat on high heat. More, please!
Such a warm welcome, which is truly appreciated. Thx so much for your input. peace.