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the watts prophets - black pussy lyrics

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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 lyrics

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