Her Hips Don’t Hop

In studying literacy, hip hop continues to be a persistent subject of discourse. These are an artistic blend of thoughts that came to me Tuesday evening.

May it prove food for thought…

 

The music won’t stop
But her hips don’t hop
Mic check one-two one-two
The sounds don’t move through her, like it moves through you

Sixteen bars
plush cars
Long weaves
Gastric sleeves
Big booties
Surgical “cuties”

The evidence of oppression
The sound is a concession
A pacifier
A lollipop
A dream that takes the black dollar
A hook that makes black folk’ holla’
“That’s my song”
But do we have it all wrong?
“That’s my part!”
Veils that we are playing a part
We’re “urban,” they’re “cultured”
We keep it real, while they steal
We believe in their talent, and see the best in them
Then they leave us on the side of street, like a pedestrian.

His registration was late, but we still heard em’say,
He loved Beyonce,
Then he joined the kkk…

Yet somehow he, not we, occupies the sunken place,
Then the beat drops, and out comes the stank face

No standards, no demands
insult, denigration, that go without reprimand

A white man stood upon the black man’s back
And made a myriad of tracks
Filled with angry rhymes,
And to some occupies the label “the greatest of all time.”

I’m not sayin’ I am a fan of Jay-Z,
I’m just saying, at least he looks like me.
You don’t have to walk eight miles to see,
“Hip hop” gave a violent n’ vulgar white man a clean slate, under the title of “emcee”

16 bars,
To forget who you are
16 bars
And to feel like you made it so far
From drugs and destitution,
Ignoring the reality that you’ve assumed a veiled form of prostitution

It’s going to take more than an ill’ verse
To reverse this systemic curse

The bodies rock rock rock
But her hips won’t hop
You hear an 808– I hear a jangle of the chains
Sounds a little like the anglo all up in yo’ last name…

 

Black Power ❤

Advertisements