Sugar

Back in the Bronx they talked about him like a king
An African King, a shining prince, he didn’t call his counterpart a bitch and he only wore gold, never platinum
Diamonds was a never, he knew his own people died mining them in Sierra Leone
But like whips on backs he couldn’t leave a block party and white woman alone
So he became universal like E.T. and Steven Spielberg
He started with spoken word but Mr. Dj said ay dog, you need a beat
You can be an M.C., move the crowd for me please
Give young woman something else to do, something they can feel good about instead of getting on their knees
Get these men out the streets
We gonna have a party

He rode sleds down sugar hills and began to jump rope like little black girls
He said a hip-hop, the hippie the hippie, to the hip-hop, a you don’t stop, the rock it to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat

And he jumped, and swayed through hoops of slavery
He had made it for the time being but had 30 more years of obstacles to overcome
The trend, the movement, the lifestyle, the revolution, had just begun

He had lives to save, little boys to lead a stray, and teenage girls to get pregnant
He had people to kill, had to commit a few 187’s on a undercover cop, and had rape cases to be filed
This boy was young, ruthless and wild

He kissed grandfather slavery songs and father jazz and sister r and b goodbye
He was on his own, with just his gun by his side


He hit the streets, kissed the Bronx graffiti and cardboard goodbye
Twenty years later ended up on the vegas strip
You live by the gun, you die by gun, and he killed Tupac Shakur
The right side of his body, vs. the left side, east vs. west, he was stuck in a internal war
But if he still just moved crowds instead of coke and drug smoke, and told young me to tote and chug, and young girls to dance and suck, we would still have Mr. Pac alive

But this man became a nigga, a soul deprived
West Coast messed him up, he needed a mental pilgrimage back to the east coast like El Hajj Malik Shabazz to Mecca
But money and power tends to make you forget who you are
A ghetto superstar, the definition he became. But drowning out the words, you can hear his pain
A disturbed being of social injustices, but he acts like we don’t know
He acts like we cant relate, like he is the only one. And his off spring, his sons, began doing the same, making up stupid ass dances that they did in slavery days.
The cycle is spinning, we are rewinding time, only difference is records are no longer a dime
We make him rich, we are somewhat his bitch
So I download his testimony
Gas is to high to be spending money on music that is gassed up with steroids, prescribed by rappers who record high

So Mr. Hip-Hop, you might be losing a fan, you use to be the man
You saved my life, you gave me testimony and taught me right
But you no longer give men a bonnie and woman a clyde
You tell us to cop expensive rides and flip off cop cars
To buy diamonds that just kill our people
To just flat out kill are people
And I liked you a lot better when you were in Bronx and Brooklyn
But now you’re a Crooklyn, Hip-Hop, who took him
I don’t recognize you at all
Remove your mask, and run into my arms

It hurts to see your downfall

I just want you sliding down sugar hills
And jumping rope like black girls, I liked you a lot better when you said
a hip-hop, the hippie the hippie, to the hip-hop, a you don’t stop, the rock it to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat

But please…….stop……and return to your sugary roots