Mother Hubbard

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
To give her poor dog a cracker;
When she came there,
The cupboard was bare,
And none of her people would back her.

She rode on her Harley
To sound the alarm;
When she came back
Her rant was still warm!

She posted a YouTube
To challenge the masses;
When she came back
They had covered their asses.

Michael Brown (1996 – 2014)

NEVER FORGET

♪♫ Who-oo-oo-oo is Mr Brown? ♪♫ ♪♫
Mr Brown is a clown who rides through town in a coffin
(Where he be found? )
In the coffin where there is three crows on top and two is laughing
Oh, what a confusion! Ooh, yeah, yeah!
What a botheration! Ooh, now, now!

Who is Mr Brown? I wanna know now! He is nowhere to be found…
From Mandeville to Slygoville, coffin runnin’ around,
Upsetting, upsetting, upsetting the town, asking for Mr Brown
From Mandeville to Slygoville, coffin runnin’ around,
Upsetting, upsetting, upsetting the town,
Asking for Mr Brown
I wanna know who –  is Mr Brown?
Is Mr Brown controlled by remote?
O-o-oh, calling duppy conqueror, I’m the ghost-catcher!

This is your chance, oh big, big Bill bull-bucka,
Take your chance! Prove yourself! Oh, yeah!
Down in parade, people runnin like a masquerade

The police make a raid,
But the (oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah) the thing get fade

What a thing in town – crows chauffeur-driven around,
Skankin’ as if they had never known the man they call “Mr Brown”

I can’t tell you where he’s from now
From Mandeville to Slygoville, coffin runnin’ around,
Upsetting, upsetting, upsetting the town,
Asking for Mr Brown
From Mandeville to Slygoville

Singer: Bob Marley
Writer: Glen Adams
Producer:  Lee Perry
Recorded: 1970
M Brown funeral
IMAGE CREDIT: disneyscreencaps.com

Hands Up, Ferguson

Ferguson thug hopestyle

Finish the crackers. Grab a smoke . . .
of Ferguson my muse will sing.
A call to arms—God’s fires to stoke;
let Truth and Freedom ring!

Take to the streets; avenge this wrong
and hasten the end of racist rule.
Justice, though it may tarry long
will find its target in the duel.

Young Michael Brown, like all true saints
found himself craving Swisher Sweets.
He robbed a store, whose camera paints
impartial portrait. In the streets

the thief refused to be detained
and so threw off police restraint.
Though sin escaped, the Law remained
and made a martyr of this saint.

The agitators did their thing:
inflaming thugs to smash and loot,
while racists baited hooks, to string
the press. Officials followed suit.

Angels, although not always kind,
do not display this attitude—
aware of how the police mind
responds to such ingratitude.

We ought to thank the police force
for showing mercy under stress.
The culprit chose a foolish course
and made a God-awful mess.

Prince Michael met ignoble fate
(that ghetto-Christ, that righteous youth)
His sacrifice in vain—though great,
could not impede the march of Truth.

Ferguson, our eyes turn towards you . . .
are you now able to admit
while reality rewards you
that looting and lying ain’t shit?

IMAGE CREDIT: time.com