lirik lagu angela brown - crooklin
crooklin, by poet angela khristin brown
it must be the music
caught up in the struggle
began in the streets
the ghetto culture
highs and lows
elements of a struggle
of living black and free
dream variations
its all but a dream
we would sing gladys knight songs
all night long, our brush used as a
microphone. never knew life would
be like this, take a bullet for you
caught up in the system. you set up
the rules
used to read jet magazine
admire the beauty of the week
looked up the top ten hits
of the best selling song list
wanting to be a model, staring at
up beat fashion in ebony magazine
saying the same things you say
you swore back in the day
that we would pave the way some day
that we would be different, the things
that come our way. a sister would learn
to earn her keep making it on her own
not dependent on any man, doing the
best she can
back in the day we would escape the heat
we admired the lessons taught from the wars
fought, caught up in the struggle, we put god
first in church. as friends we were invisible
to who we were in society, with our dreams of
equality
imagine no more public housing
no more street laundering
no more war boundries
no more wall boundries
no more biased colors, biased
race, biased sins, where we became a
race of men, next to kin of women
creators of sisters of daughters who
suffered, struggled and sacrificed
purpose to make a difference
in the streets where boys become men
played basketball, stick ball and chased
after dreams. where men learned to
get along and survive the fierce streets
of drive bys, watching brothers die
for what reason?
the color of the skin is where it all
began. colors, races, genders publc
defenders being biased making a
difference. orientation, designation
regeneration, desegregation
disorientation defines us. as we are
what we be like as humans living
out a dream
to be at peace, we define our race
by the walls we create and the laws
of faith
in the river of life, we taste the water
bitter and cold, with the taste of salt
we are baptized in the salty water to be
cleansed of sin that we live in
a child’s imagination begins with a dream
playing with toy trucks, bottles and dirt
easily entertained with cartoon heroes
and playing the drumbs
girls make up their own dreams of having
families by playing with dolls, clapping hands
keeping rhythem, double ditching to the tune
and roller skating in the afternoon
it is senical to think how a young kid gets
raped in their sleep, and all her dreams
of being someone are taken away by
the one she loved
in the ghetto, hard life and hard times
if enough to get you by. wishful thinking
becomes a daily lie
old drug addicts hanging out on street
corners. old drunk men, lost in dreams
living in trash cans with broken bottles
thrown at me
old huslters, the pan handlers to make
ends meet, selling stolen things
from old yard sales and swap meets
in barber shops and beauty salons
on the streets
old gang bangers, clocken time, dropping
dominoes bones, playing cards, gambling
pay check away for a good price
good times
these, all good times
leave your worries behind
these, all good times
fly girls loosed in the clubs
hair did, nails done
hoping they catch someone
boys chasing girls, dressed to the t
and clean, dressing cl-ssy like
ebony magazine
its in the music, playing loud
its all good in the hood
its in the music, good music
its never what it seems to be
its in the music, good music
its all but a dream
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