Whassup my niggas, I said whassup my niggas?
That was a trick question
And its nice to see that the tricky ones haven’t tricked most of you all into the
Answer/
You see nigga’s been passed through our families, generation to generation like a

Cancer./
It used to be said by slave masters who weren’t in the business of breeding no
Dancing Niggers/
They only wanted good old field Niggers./
But I wonder how the field Nigga would feel/
If he was seated next to you on the A train at approximately 3 O’ clock any day of

The week
/ and he heard his little great great grandson speak dozens if not hundreds of

Times from 59th street to West forth/
The word that made black families pack up in the South and move North./
Would he slam a couple of these boys against the doors and ask, what’s the deal

Nigga? Do you think you keeping it real Nigga?/
Do you know how I was killed Nigga? They murdered me, with hot rods of steel
Nigga./
Now how do you think this makes me feel Nigga./
Or would he just sit there and listen/ silently like white people do /
Silently like I do/
Silently like we all do. So what do I do?/
I go down to Wall Street./ Do you know why they call it Wall Street?/
Because centuries ago there were these huge high walls and down on the street

Slaves with shackles on their feet/
Were there to be bought and sold by the fleet./ Like shares of intel/
Phrases shouted daily like/
Where’s my niggers?/ There’s my niggers. Whose niggers are those?/
Now here we are centuries after slavery/
Insulting our Ancestors bravery by shouting phrases daily like./ Where’s my

Nigga?
Wodap Nigga, you know you my Nigga right?/
So don’t blame the boys on the A-Train./
Blame who put the myth it was ok to say it in their brain./ Blame the kings of

Comedy, the all time Nigga record holders./
Put the blame on Quentin Tarantino’s shoulders. And hopefully this Nigga

Nigga, Nigga poem is making you uncomfortable./
To the point where you’re cracking your neck and staring down at the ground./
Looking to your left and your right, staring at the few white people around./

Helping you realize that you’ve been bamboozled if you think you have to wear

Blackface to be a clown./
But I gotta go now, I gotta go now, I gotta go now./
I gotta get this poem in the hands of the artist formerly known as Prince now/

Because when it comes to talent, ain’t nobody’s bigger./
And maybe this poem can be the gun and his voice could be the trigger./
We could collaborate and figure a way to convince Jigga/
To help us write a new dream song or a new theme song and call it/ the people

Formerly known as Niggers