Run Charlie, Run

Run Charlie, Run
by Unknown

How I wish I could compare to their good,
pointed odes; ballads sweet-rhythmed and versed.
Perfect iambics! The masters stand tall.
I read my ignorance and want to curse
my tainted scribbles: graffiti to their walls.
God Damn... Oh, well.  There goes the neighborhood.

Run, Charlie, run.  The niggers are coming.  The niggers are coming.
Run, Charlie, run up the For Sale signs.  Red-line and gerry-manner my dictions.
Zone me out, thugged out, bugged out, locked out. Shout out. Out. Out!
Raise my rent. Sell me your shingles at twice your price. Never mind.
Vouch to take your kids, and school funds, too. Leave city kids behind.
Chase cityBankrupted community re-inventment porkfolios.  It's the law. Dial 911.
Call the poor-leased, laid away, You-hauled out the fires into frying pens. Go. Go.
Go sprawl out to where the sun don't shine and the burbs sing the lyrebird's
multi-vultured, mocking song.  Orchestrate self-hate in one grand
Oprah; members only, white dashiki affairs at a thousand bucks a plate.

Run, Charlie, run.  The niggers are coming.  The niggers are coming.
Run, Charlie, run the demo tapes.  Demo classy.  Demo crassy,  Demolition politicians.
Demo-hippo-critters. Hippo-dermy-rocks. Flesh rules, dude. For food, clothes, shelter.
All. Every measure beyond need. Love me?
Prove it. Take off your clothes. Let me torch you with my new-clearer
optics to see your private subway tokens. Let me bone out your marrowed skull; transfuse
your ortho-paradoxy. I'll buy you dying-mens and iron out your beautiful wedding
presses in your Bureaus.  Here, hon.  Take my whole art. Untraditionally.
No lessons tasted. Vasectomize your stand-in ovations.
Keep it real.  Keep it funky.  On the up, or keep it and go.  Go!
Go shop for the branded brains.  Cine-sex movies and our madness as registers ping!
pong over the picket net worth.  Distanced consumptions. Slvery's long done begun.
Why, see? The Powells and Jordans and Woods? Look but don't touch while rebates ring
fads-tedious stereos typewriting sporty news clippings. And still, the heads line up.
So, come. Let's play, then. Bad Man-ton, anyone?

Run, Charlie, run.  The niggers are coming.  The niggers are coming.
Run, Charlie, run hard raps against my dome. Stand on my hip, hop down my head with
combat boots to underground roadkill crossovers that bungee tongue
lusty lyrical libations lamenting ludicrous love at the Lyricist Lounge,
waxing poor-hectic from con-street yield signs. Stop.
Don't cross the solid white party lines, Jr. Only dash in for fun and army ant salvation.
Set. Alright. Dish out my pockets maimed-screamed on my TV.
Timed, primed, Oscar's mired in soapy adulterated diapers weaning his prime
mate with hate viewed for his fate. Watch. But don't stay too long.
You might get piped by cracked hypes, struck by Mac fucks,
and soul punched in the gut by Sylvia's pot and nettles at night.
So bring Tum Tacts and a dash of balk and leper sprayers.
It's not too late.  It's not too dark.
So, come back. Come black.
Or sleep white.  Sleep tight-fisted.  'Cuz, the niggers are coming.