My Wise Country Cousin on The State Machine’s Machinegun-Totin’ Cops…
by BAR poet-in-residence Raymond Nat Turner
Look lak de Daltuns, Youngas an ol’ James gangs
Is resirrecit, an’ up ridin’ again, doin’ dey thangs—
Bowdin’ de D train wit machinegun-totin’ police
Dey needin’ dat firepower fo’ “keepin’ de peace?”
‘Less Al Kater on de A, Boocoo Harome on de B
Dem damn machineguns make no sense, to me…
‘Less Eyesool on de C, an’ Eyesis down on de D
Dem damn machineguns make no sense, to me…
Dey got Glocks, pumps, tasirs, peppurspray, vess—
White magik fo’ conjurin’ cases ob “resisin’ aress!”
Dey shoutin’ night an’ day‘bout Eyesool and Eyesis
Coverin’ up de fac dey sistum’s tremblin’ wit crisis:
Workin’ folk tired ob takeaways an’ myzerly charity
Caint take much mo’ ob dese heists called awesterity—
Son, I tolt you once, tolt you twice, dis makes thrice
Dis a police state Negroz an’ liberuls call ‘paradice!’
Dey got C-Is, Demografick Units an Mosk Crawlers,
Ebben mens among trash hallers, an’ cable installers…
Now, it lookin’ lak to me dat Bloody Billy Bratton
Is bringin’ dat ol’ SS mess up here in Manhattun…
Sho lookin’ lak what de youngtaz be callin’ po-po
Is jes de Furor’s ol’ gang ob thugs de Gustop-po—
Well, so much fo’ hare-splittin,’ ackademik debate,
It pas’ time fo’ callin’ dis muthafucka a police state!
Raymond Nat Turner can be contacted at Raymond (at) upsurgejazz.com
Raymond Nat Turner © 2105 All Rights Reserved
Northeast, midwest, southwest, south, down south, up south, out south—south of the Canadian border—Slouched down in his cruiser, slow-rollin’ the ‘hood; Or a-
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