After “Black Southern Gothic” by Hakeem Furious 

 

There ain’t no point, 

of trying to escape a box by moving to the other side of the box. 

It’s all the same cardboard flap 

duck-tapin’ you down, 

we all part of the same package. 

Signed, sealed, delivered, 

postage stamped into their 

pocketbooks. 

Ain’t no blue state 

gonna keep you safe. 

Ain’t no “people’s politician” 

gonna return to sender. 

Ain’t none of this shit 

changed in a damn million years, 

we still lettin’ yuppies 

get power, keep power, 

rinse, repeat. 

Ain’t none but three wars 

had a good point in fightin’, 

but we still failed to choke 

the chicken before it started cluckin’. 

 

There ain’t no point 

anymore in you not learnin’ ya some. 

You’s lookin’ a fool 

by actin’ a fool 

on that stage tryin’ to rewrite history. 

Missin’ the days where 

smackin’ some sense and beatin’ ass 

what’n nothin’ to bat an eye at— 

these grown ones need it. 

Their mommas oughta be ashamed of ‘em.  

Lord knows, 

if that was my chile, 

he would’ve made it past the porch steps 

much less the Capitol steps. 

 

There ain’t no point 

in thinkin’ that any 

rich son-of-a-bitch 

is for you. 

How you think you got here— 

on the bottom rung of society, 

this backwood backroom 

to the rest of the world. 

Vote for ‘em all you want, 

they ain’t gonna remember you here. 

They ain’t never heard of here, 

‘cept when they lookin’ at the Welfare list. 

Remind me what they wanna do with your 

foodstamps. 

 

There ain’t no point 

harpin’ on this 

when you ain’t gonna listen. 

Got all those 

woolen lies in your ears. 

Bless your heart.