Mau Mau Propers for the Pope

On Friday, April first, the triple sixes,

The devil’s number, on April Fools Day

One day before the pope’s eternal slumber*

Say a sign: Mehmet Ali Agca.

The die rolled from Shaytaan’s tumbler.

Pope passed away the next day Saturday.

Set it off, niggers, for a superficial deity

Steeped in crimes enriched by thievery

Supported by dictators and presidents,

Adored by maquiladoras and sweatshop

Tyrants y’all, holding us by our balls.

Black slave truly worshipping the master

Instead of hating and defying bondage, rather

Were the master the same race or nationality

As the slave, should that mitigate the apostasy?

What’s your Nine-Eleven, niggers!

Go insane. Forget thinking, open your minds:

Fill the clip, slide close the bolt. Shut your lip.

Perhaps the slaps USA serves upside our naps

Shall someday soon earn a president coon

Or the Catholic Church a nonwhite pope.

To hope in that worse than shooting dope.

In that case put the barrel up to your face

Blast your goddamn brains all over the place.

One ecumenical joke compounded upon another.

One in particular deems the pope infallible

One pope turned to fertilizer, recycle.

Donald DeFreeze time, niggers. Shit. Cinque.

For the all powerful to depict the enslaved

In a position of power is an illusion engraved

Upon suckers paying to win a billionaire lottery

Waged on triple sixes, on April Fools Day. Hay

For you, the flip side of the illusion serves

Just a smell, deluding bombers with shaky nerves

On hopes of a cross-burning pope stuffed into Hell.

Pray to that pimp while you sweat in jail.

Triple sixes onna popes death bed, niggers!

And yet you step aside for simple shit, a dead

Antichrist, the mark upside a dragon’s head

Not upon it, leprous stains the soul within

The Mark of Oppression, niggers, not of Sin

Black skin for sinners, Oppressors wear white.

Sinners swap threads with Oppressors overnite.

Same sinners swap spit with Oppressors for cash

Asses fatuous to be freed from the Crackers lash.

What’s your Nine-Eleven, motherfucker.

Nobody from Heaven returns inflight to overthrow

This Devilz Paradise and set things right. So

Such stinking thinking strips you down

Rips you down, clowns you, frowns on you

Your hesitation forces black fighters to dissolve

Back from the streets, staked out, delayed. Resolved.

Sidelined niggers venting anger. Vent, niggers!

Dedan Kimathi. Musab Al Zarqawi. Vent that.

Crazy niggers, wild niggers, killing crackers dead

Niggers with million dollar bounties on they head.

Pick the fuck up on that, Africans, pick up the gun

Where’s the pope mobile see it catch it run

Like the Putin grenade at Bush flung so untoward

And fuck the pope and his goddamn peace award.

Damn him and sainthood, no good malingerer

To him and his successor, Ratslinger, the finger

Yeh with that Sunday voodoo shit on they altar.

Yeh stiff-assed hymns to a stiff-assed god of stone

Nailed to a plus, fed to dogs, Isa’s doctrine blown

Contaminated by an apostate Paul, a devil at large.

Conflagrations set by heretic popes on their charge

Suffer no apologists for slavery and genocide

To targets, hoes, who shed blood in fratricide

As rifle bolts slide forward silently, stealthily

Processions of machete-toting zombies infallibly

Committed on papal authority glide to they death,

From Kinshasa to Bujumbura, a blood soaked path

Bodies in heaps, graves en masse, now chant a mass:

Who blessed the bombs and blessed the armies

And bullets which saturated flesh, sliced arteries

For the glory of the church so that Carol Wojtyla,

Pope John Paul II, gained spoils of Vatican imperialism?

We cling to the excesses and culture to the very end.

Samora Machel, motherfuckers. George Habash.

The pope aint your friend, don’t like pussy

Don’t like niggers, but will spend your money

Swaggering with balls bigger than you can bear

Them damn popes aint no closer to God, the knaves

Than Washington came to freeing the slaves.

Should any lord of the Age of Expansion fear,

Or repudiate the power which brought them here?

From this very day, television commercials parade

Niggers in every conceivable position displayed

Projecting illusions of success, delusions nonetheless

Wealth fame fortune love beauty happiness conquest

Perceptions of what is but which also facilitates

Mainstreaming niggers thru these United Snakes.

Is everybody buying it is everybody trying it

Jumping off the boat for the pope’s lying shit?

Because the pope started all this with Da Gama

In 1492, along with that other flat world ‘bama

Colon. Now five hundred years far too long

Just different music playing to the same old song.

What’s your goddamn Nine-One-One, niggers?

Before we were niggers, before the Conquistadors

Before Da Gama bombed Mombasa, before

You remember what we really were, we had

Diamonds in the fields, made love in gardens by

Sweet fountains of the Niger in an African eden

Kings black as midnight, palaces draped in gold

And African queens dressed in riches untold

Warriors big as boats, seven foot tall, their

Spears tipped with iron, sharpened for war

Physicians philosophers sages of Sankore

Artisans aristocrats and shepherds of Ile-Ife

Catching the sun, children played care-free

Until the popes gangs came to ravage Society.

Soon after, other Europeans arrived in their wake

Yet the chimera first sprang from the popes own cape

Villages destroyed, soldiers deployed from dungeons

Force marching captive Africans into floating coffins.

From black maidens in bondage, black farmers in chains

The shackle the lash the mace bashing brains

Burnt branded tattooed like cattle and chattel

To New Millennium babies gulping cold oatmeal

Fast, as women sell their bodies for a cocaine blast…

Youth spinning Vogues, stalking with Glocks

Track down one another over handfuls of rocks.

Vibe on the corner, promoting ghetto fab glamour

To hustlers one slip away from a trip to the slammer.

Our once free world now turned right-side wrong

A dance set in motion to the popes droning gong.

Negro sell outs cop out for a chance to get paid

Like a trick in a trance by a whore, getting played…

Uprising on the horizon, streets furiously a swirl

The burnt flesh of necklaces in the air, that smell

So what’s your Nine-Eleven, niggers? Do tell.

Nat Turner, bitches. Mau Mau time.

*(On Friday, April first, 2005, one day before Pope John Paul II passed away, the Pennsylvania Lottery turned out 6-6-6 on the evening numbers draw. That provided part of the inspiration for this poem, which I had written a few months ago, but hadnt put it out. Hope it sets some hearts on fire.)