Uncle Tom 
By: Ronnie Sidney
October 2003


Got damn, these neo niggaz don't understand. 
So I gotta hit the books, and try to understand the man. 
Understand Mr. Charlie that took us off our ancestors land, 
Then try to prosecute us for his crimes on the stand. 
America than Miseducated generations of Africans. 
They school books ain't teaching us, what's really happening. 
Calling us the white mans burden, 
who better off living behind America's curtains. 
Saying in Africa we'd be starving, 
And at least in America we here working. 
Forgot what we learned on the farm, 
so we feel like we all gotta conform. 
Absorbing these Eurocentric cultural norms, 
You know, Sambo's and Uncle Tom's. 
Our only dreams in America, 
Involves moving own up into suburbia. 
Living Around whites who don't like you, 
Leaving Blacks who look just like you. 
Getting called Nigger behind your back, 
That P.H.D. can't change the fact that you black. 
Cause if boss man catch you slack, 
He don't mind giving you the axe. 
You seen these Tom's strolling wit Martin, 
And that Token integration. 
Same Tom's who ducked the Civil War, 
Cause they was freed men, Free from the plantations. 
Thinking they college degrees came wit some kinda privileged guarantees. 
Just Look at them house niggaz running round outside like they got the key. 
Happy and all elated, agreeing wit all the racist. 
Sitting on 40 acres, smiling in white folks faces. 
The phoney coloreds got me beat, 
But I understand they trying to eat. 
Just understand brotherman, In our world, 
Wall st. ain't far from Church st. 
I know you thinking "Wow, I don't deserve this, 
He's only attacking me cause I'm conservative. 
Mastered the King's Verbiage, 
And hated my own heritage. 
I had to Excell in class, 
To make it to the Upper middle class. 
And since I'm fair skinned with lots of class, 
Whitey gone let me pass. 
I know that's what Tom saying in his head, 
But he won't speak on it cause he scared. 
He know Charlie ain't got his back, 
And I'm only seconds up off that ass. 
Quick to run through the woods and out the hood, 
Leaving Sam Walton and Asians supplying our goods. 
He ain't never open up a own mom or pops, 
Or gave thought to a soul food spot or barber shop. 
He to busy relishing in his own intelligence, 
until it's lost its relevance. 
Boss let em have his name on his door and desk, 
To justify working him to death. 
Now Tom selfish and insecure, 
He won't be seen around to many blacks or black stores. 
Cause he know a brother quick to say he sold out, 
And let him know what he all about. 
Bourgeois ass niggas, 
Always worried about they figures. 
Rather its they European figured wife, 
Or their stock figures from last night. 
Their 6 figure paychecks, 
Got them figuring which suburb to move to next. 
Cause he figure wit Bush re-election coming up, 
He can cake off the low interest rates and tax cuts. 
But on the real Tom, 
I don't really fuck wit you man. 
To me, you more of a threat than the klan, 
Cause you eating out his hand. 
I don't wanna hear about the new black middle class. 
I want us to adhere to our own standards. 
If we keep letting white people dictate how we live, 
We only gone end up slaves to they kids. 
That conforming shit making us miserable, 
Turning our neighborhoods to slums, 
and our geniuses to bums. 
Shit got our Daughters raising sons, 
And drugs creating contentment, when theirs none, 
We gotta ease our dependence on money, 
Cause the people of color don't control it. 
It's nothing more than a distraction, 
To keep us fighting and divided in fractions. 
So Tom you gotta chill for real, 
Cause integration precedes extinction. 
So either confront of conform, 
And I'ma let you make that distinction