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Children of the Cornbread

by RONELL


All the cousins like chips n dip,

Hot cheetos and s***.

Laquesha, Quantasia, Deja, Asia, Sharkeisha,

Can I braid your hair?

My head tilt funny.

Pressed out,

Beads wild,

Cantu in my hair.

Plastic chair.

Oil finger.

Hardcore poster.

L-I-L to the K-I-M

Is the one QB

Bumpin BK B-I-G. R.I.P Biggie.

Durags inches split.

Fresh dope trends.

Squirt water guns.

Them Cadillacs been rollin'

N.Y.C.

I gotta rock the new-new sorts of skirts,

The new-new earrings

And ghetto shoe strings.

In ATL, ATMs.

I make these greens money.

WORK.

Nails like COCO. Not Chanel, SWV.

Yes, my Louie V, Ralph, Gucci, Prada,

Calvin, Versace, Fendi pouch blings.

Skating rink close at 9. They be wildin' out.

T.K.O. Call the popo.

Passenger-seat n****s, gold hydraulics.

Teeth be stallin'.

Sagging pants called swag

In the hood.

A no-no. That’s a low blow

On the down-low.

Mistaking you for a f**.

Nah, I ain't gay

Flexin' little boys, shirts off,

Tops down,

Fresh Jordans, Idolizing clowns.

Big nasty, put some clothes on.

What’s the 411?

The I.R.S. tryin' to take my pay.

K.O.D. momma got ADHD. Pops got 12 kids, Section 80.

Get you a n**** like me,

On ESPN professionally.

Pimp My Ride, MTV.

Love Jones, BET.

Stealing money like thieves.

Ezeal with my E.B.T.

Low-key robbery.

Cornbread on rooftop,

Antenna, no cable TV.

Honey buns, stacks of racks, Full of packs of noodles.

Mean-ass poodle.

Chicken noodle. No beef.

Soda on the side.

Apple pie, vanilla ice cream.

Morning, sunny-side.

I can't wait.

Night graffiti prostitution.

Stop pullin' out them bootleg burners, them DVDs.

You get chopped and screwed.

Babygirl don't play,

Go ballistic like N.W.A.

Find yourself in the E.R.

Fried bologna sandwich.

Are you still down with me?

Go Gina them jeans They must be uptight momma.

You need to get right momma,

Control your dogs.

Smokey got Craig actin' different.

It’s cuz of what 'Yoncé spittin'.

Smoke, hit this lick.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T. The elders watching you

Shakin' booty.

Bump and grindin', R Kelly.

Joints be on radio, CD, MP3.

Talkin bout "Sex me..."

It’s always somethin',

Her auntie told yo cousin.

Then all your homies jump in.

Now the whole hood is buzzin'

Cuz we all Children of the Cornbread.