by BAR poet-in-residence Raymond Nat Turner
Rump playin’ “Great Wite Hope”, fo po lil’ wite men
Trickin’ dey dum asses into thinkin’ dat he dey frien…
‘Cause dey jus’ too stooped, hatin’ Brouns an Blaks—
Dummies stickin’ de 1% knife in dey own baks!
My Wise Country Cousin on Da Man He Call ‘Rump’
by BAR poet-in-residence Raymond Nat Turner
Whoa, Nellie, now you bes ta walk it bak, an dial it down
Den run up in here wit dem wil’ musins ‘bout dat clown
Cuz fo’ tweny-six years, now, I ben callin’ da man ‘Rump’
Die-reeuh he spittin, verbull equibullen to takin’ a dump
Truf be tol’, I nebber lak de durty basturd frum de jump
I’ll tell ya why I calls de Great White Hussla: ‘Rump’
Scanalus dog call fo’ lynchin’ boys ob de Centrul Park 5
Wit all ob de dirt he dun, lawd, it’s a wunna he still alive
Gittin in de meedeuh’s ear fo’ his Klan-bran ob freestylin’
Ful’ page properganduh claimin’ dat dem boys wus ‘wilin’!
Wen I thinks ob his korrup, theivin’ ass, I thinks: ‘thug’
His scowlin’, mean mug make me think: ‘thug in a rug’
An, wen he git his bakwuds, racis ass up dere on mic
$cam-painin’—committin’ Amerikkka’s 3,003rd strike
I think ob dat ol’ Moose-o-leany boy—or, de 3rd Rike—
If I wus on Fasebook, I’d clik twice: I Do Not Like!
Bull Oh’Ryelee say, ‘Run, Rump, run’ fo’ $elekkkshun—
Dey bof frum one ob 1816 thru Astrul Projekshun!
If I wus a votin’ man, I’d rutha rite in Forres Gump,
Swalla sum snales, an a gret big, ol’ blak coal lump
Git AIDS, see my membur withur down to a stump
Den wase my goddamn time sittin’ lissenin to Rump
He sumbody I jus’ caint stan, no, I simplee deespys—
Rollin’ lak his hat ban’ an’ belt ‘bout de same size
Wusn’t dat Shakspear who say, “All de wurl a stage?”
He sho’ nuff rite, dis time ob de Commanduh’s Age
Wen ol’ Burny de sheepdog, an Rump de boogieman
Dem bankstur boys plan dey work, an’ work dey plan!
Rump playin’ “Great Wite Hope”, fo po lil’ wite men
Trickin’ dey dum asses into thinkin’ dat he dey frien…
‘Cause dey jus’ too stooped, hatin’ Brouns an Blaks—
Dummies stickin’ de 1% knife in dey own baks!
Bein’ rich de po wite man’s NUMMA 2 aspurayshun—
2nd to hatin’ Blaks an Brouns—his main fixsayshun!
So he don’ gib a damn ‘bout no Mexicun, or Hayshun
Or, see soladaretee, way fo’ betterin’ his sitwayshun
Sof-head wite boys mus’ turnoff, tune-out, an unplug
Quit bein’ messmurized by Rump’s monee—an’ rug!
‘Min’ me ob yo’ musick, struttin’an’ grabbin’ his Jonsen
Freestyle battlin’, de Coke Bros. Gubnur frum Wizconsin
$cam-pains lak wresslin’ maches ob Lil’ Wayne an Drake
Ebben moerons, idyuts, emacills know— dat dum shit fake!
What de diffrunz tween Rump an tomfoory ob Lil’ Wayne?
Dey bof out dere profittin off po’, wurkin peepul’s pain…
De mass ob white fok mus’ say, “NO!” to Rump’s chattur
Throwin’ Nikey, Reebox—an’ showin’: ALL Shooz Mattur!
Den make Rump break dance, spinnin’ on his rug fo’ an hour
Symbull ob dis muthafucka upside down AND peepul powur!
Raymond Nat Turner can be contacted at upsurgejazz.com
Raymond Nat Turner © 2015 All Rights Reserved
"Trigger Warning" is the latest work from BAR's poet-in-residence.
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