Look at me, I’m rich,
so why should I care?
My blender crushes ice
and mixes Irish
Cream, creamy white with a touch of
brown, straight up. I wander,
to the land of Lotus Eaters,
put on my music, loosen up my brain
so I don’t know what I am,
died and born again.
And why should I learn anything?
or teach myself of strange fruit?
We’ve all died and been born
and born and born and born again.
We are both bastards and bulging eyes,
our intestines torn out with words and knives
swinging from high
watching Irish Cream families
barbecuing on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
So why should I fucking learn anything?
The Last Poets and Watts Prophets
sold a message for a beat.
Left to wander in disgrace
in the delights of the garden
while the revolution passed us by.
What is a man? I don’t know,
wasn’t in any riots, wasn’t taught nothing
of bullets or ballets or mules or Malcolm
or poetry or middle class wish I was rich
what is a man?
Because look at me. I’m rich.
So why should I care?