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letra de black pussy - the watts prophets

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black p-ssy
or sour-sweet black p-ssy if history has taste buds

mellow dudes on jungle street corners were the first to dig it, to really understand it
proud, spirit-carrying, dues-paid-up brothers
us, the black p-ssy loving brothers

out there, in darkness, stuck in the middle passage of time
we [?] and hung on
[?]
danced high up in the slit on sat-rday night
kept hope alive with hardcore deep, black rhythmic f-cking, the best yet

slithered down to the nitty gritty
suckled a honey dark titty
grabbed hold of the hottest ass on earth
slipped a [?] onto each of your b-ttock
and thought about chinese arithmetic or the auction block, the holy juicin’
making it now, through the slim black streets
heading for sweet mama do-right
sweet mama do-right, a new hair gone-back, body loaded with a new drug, afro-smack (geeze)

eyes dug, mind heavy
easing down finely, from them belly-nippled br–sts, tongue out of the soft hot thick, creamy lips
hips easing into the old swazi spoon position
heavy from the pubic [?] of african history (king)

dirty grey dogs trail black p-ssy, smoking black ass through the trash heaps of harlem night alleys
through the underbrush of the south african [?]
[?] are gonna run it down to you
through a merciless 400 year night of attempted statutory rape
try it, god d-mn it, [?] through all the symptoms
almost did we get behind and beyond

yeah, they tongue, hot [?] for your black p-ssy
and congo square at the quad room b-lls
and it is a protest movement
the white motherf-ckers protesting to his society for a shout of your mind blow (go ahead)
everything else, everything else, he, the pale eyed liar claims to have discovered or foreseen or tasted or smelt first
everything but one thing (say it)
black p-ssy

he, the motherless b-st-rd behind his pasty facade, his ibm machine rib, his automatic toasters, his machine guns, his paper work and triplicate, his long [?] nose and his desperate need for everybody else’s land could not conceive of
not even with astronomical equations, of black p-ssy

or human rhythm mode in the loins
sweet john the conqueroo [?]
sprinkles of a monstrous black thigh with enough sin for goodness and the [?] to shake the pale b-st-rd into reality (tell it to them like it is) (teach n-gga)

how could the rhythm of this monk understand sister sadie’s holy rose?
[?]
while sam waited for the b-st-rd to leave in order to get hairs off his tongue

no, the devils did never understand black p-ssy
a phenomenon that appeared before recorded history, fully developed, richly talented, sopping sweet with [?] syrup and a hoecake of bread

bunched down lower in the triangular groove
looking for all the world like turfs of salt black gardens
spilling nappy-headed cum in the rear of crowded, loving jungles
while rooftops and black ghettos across the american nation
splashing cosmic cream onto technicolored fingers in the middle of oceanic beds
turnin’, twisting, tossing the white light-weight black boo-boo f-cker into a trick bae

groovy hip, heavy humping black b-tches with d-mn c-nts split from belly to [?]
congo c-nts, mandingo gash, fulani neckbuster, don’t tell me they don’t exist, i know better!
[?], zulu sweat, swahili slit, jambos

black p-ssy, american tribal knights forced into existance by a continuing tradition

black p-ssy and a liberal [?] who’ve never forgotten where it’s at

- the watts prophets

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