nikka the red is for the blood in my arm
The black is for the gun in my palm
And the green is for the tram that grows natural
Like locks on Africans
Holdin the smoke from the herb in my abdomen
Camouflage fatigues, and daishikis
Somewhere in between N.W.A. and P.E.
I'm black like Steve Biko
Raised in the ghetto by the people
fukk the police you know how we do
Ayo my life is like Roots it's a true story
It's too gory for them televised fables on cable
I'ma a runaway slave watching the north star
Shackles on my forearm , runnin with the gun on my palm
I'm an African , never was an African-American
Blacker than black I take it back to my origin
Same skin hated by the klansmen
Big nose and lips, big hips and butts, dancin, what
- Dead Prez