My tunes be like battling brass trumpet
With rattling triumph snares and animal hide drums 
Banging over white men and their guns
Beating through my ancestor’s villages 
Smiling bold round and brown faces 
Good vibration from home type places
Them tunes Daddy used to by ear with shear talent
Mama’s back home from the grocery 
With brown bags full of food for thought
She bravely bought for us to carefully consume
The same type of food she feed me in her African womb
That knowing of knowledge
The skill to untwist societal knots 
Which bound my people bloody and sobbing to “Massa’s” auction blocks
Black bare feet
No socks
Sunken heads of shame on piers and docks
Trying to understand the meanings to these damn chains
Or the large lashes 
And whelps that hurt when they slept 
Star shaped scars on backs
Or the reason God left them like that  
But the knowing of knowledge kept our minds growing 
Like tunes played through magically wombs
Giving birth to deep thinkers and precious providers
God thank you for the babies insider her, her, and her
Black beautiful 
Intellectual sexual 
Manifestations of all that represent struggle 
And simultaneous triumph 
Over America’s filthy ways
And stupidity sickness plagues for days days days 
My sista hitting notes too soon for any of my mans to understand
So play on, play on my sista
But remember your band’s tunes aren’t tunes 
Unless you got god playing with ya!