Grits

I ain’t ever had no black eyed beans

and my Mama ain’t ever fried me no mustard greens.

I ain’t ever wanna try no fish and grits,

but yo people are you feeling it?

I ain’t ever been to no Fillmore West

and I ain’t ever got down to harlem slick in my Sunday best.

I would love to go to Detroit City,

but my people are you feeling pretty?

I don’t know what you’ve been told

but I can’t hide where I came from.

So don’t you tell me to go home.

Let my soul be my soul.

Let your soul be your soul.

Let our souls be our souls.

Let my soul be my call...

I ain’t ever been to no block party

and the Red Sox jacking on the Bobcats - it don’t mean smack to me.

I would love to do a speakeasy at Mahogany,

but my people are you feeling me?

I don’t cream my skin and I don’t comb my fro.

And I can’t rock my sleeveless the same as a heavy like Dwele or D’Angelo.

And if you try to bump my fist,

I might panic and shake your wrist.

But I ain’t worried about that no, I wanna know if you’re feeling this