Black People What Yall Gon Do by The Last Poets Lyrics
Black people, what y'all gon' do
Black people, what y'all gon' do
Black people, what y'all gon' do when you wake up and find that you're dead with maggots and roaches eating the pus out of your prostituted minds and white deathly hands massaging your hearts red-hot branding iron?
You're writing songs of love but not for me
They're writing songs of love but not for me
Here we are the employees of all love but yet we are working overtime to cover up our loneliness
John Coltrane died in vain of love supreme
John Coltrane died in vain of love supreme
Where are the low staccato screams of black unity?
John Coltrane died in vain of love supreme
Where are the higher octaves of righteousness and truth?
John Coltrane died in vain of love supreme
Where are the higher registers of peace and love?
John Coltrane died in vain
What are black people doing enough of that they shouldn't be doing?
Nothing, nothing, nothing
Black people what y'all gon' do
Black people what y'all gon' do
I see junkie bitches giving birth to gonorrhea-faced babies that come out nodding to the rhythms of God Bless America
And these same babies grow up to be good-looking corpses that haunt the streets of Harlem raping syphilic-minded wombless black pussies who dream of becoming virgins once again in the hereafter
Stop in the name of love
Stop in the name of love
Stop mugging that old woman
She's been saving her money all year for a trip to Electric Circus where she died the very next day
Oh God, oh God!!
God ain't dead, he's down at the family planning office handing out birth control pills to black women telling them they are gifts from Heaven
Look, there's Old Sam the wino searching for a last sip of ancient sweet love in an empty wine bottle in the gutters of his soul
And the air has become polluted with white lies of love while love is dying from overdoses of misused Christianity and legitimate insane asylums and legal torture chambers called Southside, Bed Stuy and Hough
Are we the black people we once loved with the slow march of time?
Time was ours to hold in the soft love warm chambers of our hearts
And once we, the afro mommies and daddies of a universe would turn our strands of hair into antennas to tune in the juju madness and syncopated love rhythms of Africa
And we loved with time and we took the time to love
And with the right time, we loved
And we loved time after time
Will we ever love again?
Will we ever love again?
Will we really ever love again?
Or will we just sit and rot away with the brighter tomorrows and the scag fill rat-cluttered pissed stenched halls of our minds
Black people, what y'all gon' do?
Black people, what y'all gon' do?
Will the real Black people please stand up?
Black people, what y'all gon' do
Black people, what y'all gon' do when you wake up and find that you're dead with maggots and roaches eating the pus out of your prostituted minds and white deathly hands massaging your hearts red-hot branding iron?
You're writing songs of love but not for me
They're writing songs of love but not for me
Here we are the employees of all love but yet we are working overtime to cover up our loneliness
John Coltrane died in vain of love supreme
John Coltrane died in vain of love supreme
Where are the low staccato screams of black unity?
John Coltrane died in vain of love supreme
Where are the higher octaves of righteousness and truth?
John Coltrane died in vain of love supreme
Where are the higher registers of peace and love?
John Coltrane died in vain
What are black people doing enough of that they shouldn't be doing?
Nothing, nothing, nothing
Black people what y'all gon' do
Black people what y'all gon' do
I see junkie bitches giving birth to gonorrhea-faced babies that come out nodding to the rhythms of God Bless America
And these same babies grow up to be good-looking corpses that haunt the streets of Harlem raping syphilic-minded wombless black pussies who dream of becoming virgins once again in the hereafter
Stop in the name of love
Stop in the name of love
Stop mugging that old woman
She's been saving her money all year for a trip to Electric Circus where she died the very next day
Oh God, oh God!!
God ain't dead, he's down at the family planning office handing out birth control pills to black women telling them they are gifts from Heaven
Look, there's Old Sam the wino searching for a last sip of ancient sweet love in an empty wine bottle in the gutters of his soul
And the air has become polluted with white lies of love while love is dying from overdoses of misused Christianity and legitimate insane asylums and legal torture chambers called Southside, Bed Stuy and Hough
Are we the black people we once loved with the slow march of time?
Time was ours to hold in the soft love warm chambers of our hearts
And once we, the afro mommies and daddies of a universe would turn our strands of hair into antennas to tune in the juju madness and syncopated love rhythms of Africa
And we loved with time and we took the time to love
And with the right time, we loved
And we loved time after time
Will we ever love again?
Will we ever love again?
Will we really ever love again?
Or will we just sit and rot away with the brighter tomorrows and the scag fill rat-cluttered pissed stenched halls of our minds
Black people, what y'all gon' do?
Black people, what y'all gon' do?
Will the real Black people please stand up?