> Clothes > > > You are in love with Tommy, > Because his last name is Hilfiger, > But behind closed doors, Tommy, > Is calling you a nigger, > > But you could care less, > Because you have been taught to dress to impress, > If I ask you about your true history, > You would have to look on the back of your jeans and Guess, > > You come up in the club wearing Versace, > Clothes made by a homosexual male, > So even when you say you are straight, > It is very hard to tell, > And for footwear, you wear Timberlands, > > Even under the sun, > That same tree that's the symbol for them, > Could have been the same one your ancestors were hung from, > > I cannot forget Nautica, > When was the last memory you have of ships, > Coming to North America in shackles, > Being beaten over the back with whips, > > And to my beautiful black queens, > Whose creative womb has become barren, > I am confused because your face says Nefertiti, > But your sweater reads Donna Karen, > > When was the last time you saw Liz Claiborne, > Conversing with black women, > But as soon as her name is printed on a purse, > To Macy's you quickly go, running, > > > Ralph Lauren doesn't even look at black men, > Unless they are driving him around town, > But as soon as that slave master appears on the back of a horse, > You put whatever you have picked up down,
Email me poems at blackandproud@cabanova.com
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