Ice Loc’d Out: Chris Hayden
Ice Loc’d Out
©2000 Chris Hayden
Profess I Here’s the close of the ColorLine Century And my BlackVoice sings “God Bless America” While my BlackFace calls America a lie
Profess I At the close of the ColorLine Century My BlackMind is a two-headed snake Ward Connerly warblin’ It’s Allright And Spike Lee wailin’ ’bout bein’ robbed at the Oscars
An’ I gots nothin’
At the close of the ColorLine Century Cuz Ice Loc’d Out Cuz Ice Cum to destroy you And come to give you life At the same time
I can see myself on the net Grayman in the Mirror Hollow log for a head Dirty strings hangin’ from my chinny chin chin
Green nightmares Bust like pus from red sores On the black stiff middle finger The distaff branch of the Tree of Life
I Profess eye Cum to destroy you Come to give you life At the same time Spiffy in my split-level ranch style straight jacket Holdin’ off the Thought Police With a shotgun to my head Screamin’ “Go ’way or I’ll shoot!”
A straight jacket The clothes of the ColorLine Century
Ice Loc’d Out Everybody’s Cuzz Anybody’s Dogg Nobody’s Brother Giddy with self induced hysteria I wail “If I’m So Smart Why Aint I Rich And Famous” All nite at the top of my lungs Then wonder why I can’t never get no sleep
And today I cast my Prophet’s Eye at the Open of a New Millenium Open like an old wound Death on my behind and hellhounds on my trail And see nothin No-nyet-nein-not-nada But a fist of iron nihilism in a glove of velvet capitalims Clutching a club of corporate communism
And I cast my Prophet’s Eye And catch nothin’ No-nyet-nein-not-nada, save that which is less than zero, that which is left when my ideals have been dragged through the dirt and dismembered like the dead body of a black man down lonely Texas roads (wasn’t there where only lovers go?)
And I be Ambassador for the Damned, spokesman for ghosts, telepathic epitaph of the Last Days, when America is become the dancing floor of war for Europe and Asia, and you know I still can’t bring myself to destroy Dr. Frankenstein’s wonderful creation even though it was specifically raised from the dead to kill me
And a lonely bastard I am, no Mama No Papa No Uncle Sam All that was clean in me once has been dragged down dirty and dismembered like the dead black man down lonely Texas roads, where only before lovers go
. . .Ambassador for the Damned, and spokesman for ghosts . . . . . .and you know I still got the gall to have hope?