I did my best

But I guess my best wasn’t good enough

Your pretty Pinterest board ran out of spackle

And we allowed Adidas to market shoes with shackles

I wish I was more like Gus Haynes

Sticking it to the white man through all of my gut pains

You’re a white supremist if you wonder what country Obama was birthed in

And went all through high school never reading Zora Neale Hurston

I promise, I’ll be as pompous as I want to be

And exploit affirmative action to cash in on this Bachelor’s degree

I’m going to write some gibberish and call it “ethnic fiction”

Right after I start an all-black cribbage league

Our club mascot is Huey Newton’s ashy knee

We’re repping meta postmodernity

Until my home is burdened by non-functional furnishings

I got hair like a pad of Brillo

And date girls whose dad could be Don DeLillo

What’s the price on my dignity plus damages

Inflicted on my self esteem through ignorance and ham sandwiches?

You’ll need a larger hedonic calculator

The only black fantasy characters are always grouchy satyrs

I’m in an alley shouting lines from the Credo

Pages stained red from all these flaming hot Cheetos

In my computer chair with a face full of [yolk strands?]

Frantically searching the internet for all-brown folk bands

Couldn’t get signed because my areolae aren’t heart-shaped

Well, that’s certainly a dark fate

No worries, there’s still hope for me

My pan-African hoodie reeks of cocoa butter and potpourri

Yea, you just downloaded the red heron 1000

The black opinion splicer, the Donna Karan of pun jousting

So white tycoons have a baby blood and a caligula making up

My crazy duds are straight bare and [munchausen?]

Oh what my wooly mane, it filters poison out the gentle breeze

Applaud me as I dunk hoops, my sub-group is special needs

Yep, marred to the [?] of a [?]

These Eldridge Cleaver baby tees are a far cry from leadership

But it’s so legit, here’s your ID about to go and punch a card

You might need a [?]

D.O. to [?] take his black cobra hiss

Oh you think I like to protest? Do you think I’m pro-rich?

Oh, well I guess I’m black, I just didn’t think that you noticed

Your quiet disdain for black males makes me motion sick

That’s why I’m a sourpuss, swag stays on our books

Hunched over a power book I’m posting pics of my swollen prick

Against exposed brick

I’m [?]

Trapped like a goldfish

Oh my lungs, they’re two [atavistic?] steamboats

Filled with negroe spirit holes and a sweet cream for that brioche

And I guess you’re right man my weed’s rich in chlorophyll

My [jacklit?] is cornmeal and my diploma is an orange peel

And my sense of rhythm acts like a force field

Protecting me from you, or you from me

(Tone it down, ′driver)

What’s that in your gun holster?

Oh this is the de-negro-tiser

I shoot myself with it until I’m whiter than Peter Piper

Now I’ll be able to bow before a world leaders maître

Until then the shackles on my Adidas sneakers need to be tighter

Cause right now man, I’m free like a zebra in Zaire

So I’ll hop in a time machine to have my litigens wiped clean

And I’ll entertain yuppies as they buy tight jeans and thai cuisine

Gus Haynes

I did my best

But I guess my best wasn’t good enough

I be in the club draped in BUFU

Throwing hexes, voodoo

Black magic, juju

That’s why I ain’t mad when they watch the throne

Go ahead and let Waka Flocka dip his Glock in chrome

Make an interviewer call me Bruce Wavy like I’m Max B

No doubt I’ve read more Nietzsche than what they’ve asked of me

But these bastards will make a plaster cast of me

Guy Fieri-narrated biopic of Malcolm-Jamal Warner

In my utopia Nu Gingrich is an illegal foreigner

Diners, drive-ins and dives