It’s coal, a hole, charcoal or your soul,

It’s your boots, your roots, or what makes you whole,

It’s your life, the strife, a knife in the back,

It’s not winning or losing but staying on track,

It’s Black, Baby.


It’s a currant or berry, an orchid but no rose,

It’s a lucky cat, a panther or the path that you chose,

That leads to evolution not for all but just those,

Who aren’t too passive to withstand the blows,

It’s Black, Baby.


We win all the medals and most of the prizes,

We’re faster and stronger and full of surprises,

We’re peaceful and tranquil when the occasion arises,

But call our homes ‘shitholes’ and you’ll create a crisis,

It’s Black Baby.


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