Poem here says, Comment #1 uh Comment #2 is dynamite but Comment #1
is the one we decided to use here this evening because it makes a
comment if you listen closely on what is now being advertised in
East Harlem as the Rainbow Conspiracy a combination of the Students
For A Democratic Society, the Black Panthers, and the Young Lords
and this is my particular comment about that conspiracy, Comment #1.
The time is in the street you know, us living as we do upside down.
And the new word to have is revolution.
People don't even want to hear the preacher spill or spiel because
God's hole card has been thoroughly peeked.
And America is now blood and tears instead of milk and honey.
The youngsters who were programmed to continue fucking up woke
up one night digging Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys.
America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes.
The signs of Truth were tattooed across her often-entered vagina.
We learned to our amazement untold tale of scandal.
Two long centuries buried in the musty vault, hosed down
daily with a gagging perfume.
America was a bastard the illegitimate daughter of the mother
country whose legs were then spread around the world and a
rapist known as freedom, free doom.
Democracy, liberty, and justice were revolutionary code names
that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling
in the mother country's crotch and behold a baby girl was born,
nurtured by slave holders and whitey racists it grew and grew
and grew screwing indiscriminately like mother like daughter
everything unplagued by her madame mother.
The present mocks us, good Black people with keen memories set
fire to the bastards who ask us in a whisper to melt and integrate.
Young, very young, teeny bopping revolt on weekend young dig by
proxy what a mental ass kicking they receive through institutionalized
everything and vomit up slogans to stay out of Vietnam.
They seek to hide their relationship with the world's prostitute,
alienating themselves from everything except dirt and money with
long hair, grime, and dope to camo-hide the things that cannot be hidden.
They become runaway children to walk the streets downtown with everyday
Black people sitting on the curb crying because we know
that they will go back home with a clear conscience and a college degree.
The irony of it all, of course, is when a pale face SDS motherfucker
dares look hurt when I tell him to go find his own revolution.
He wonders why I tell him that America's revolution will not be the
melting pot but the toilet bowl. He is fighting for legalized smoke,
a lower voting age, less lip from his generation gap and fucking in the street.
Where is my parallel to that? All I want is a good home and a wife
and a children and some food to feed them every night.
Back goes pale face to basics.
Does Little Orphan Annie have a natural? Do Sluggos kings make him a
refugee from Mandingo? What does Webster say about soul?
I say you silly chipe motherfucker, your great grandfather tied
a ball and chain to my balls and bounced me through a cotton
field while I lived in an unflushable toilet bowl and now you
want me to help you overthrow what? The only Truth that can be
delivered to a four year revolutionary with a hole card i.e.
skin is this: fuck up what you can in the name of Piggy Wallace,
Dickless Nixon, and Spiro Agnew.
Leave brother Cleaver
and Brother Malcolm alone please.
After all is said and done build a new route to China if they'll have you.
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
compositores: Gil Scott-Heron
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