So vivid is the picture,
you'd like us all to see.
Yet, still I stay blind
to your colorful disease.
You color me white,
with crayola.
For fun, i color you green-
with sharpie.
Never quite permanent,
but always lasting.

Inside,
color me crimson.
Just like a dead black man,
our blood flows the same.
He'd say we're racist...
all the while we're just jealous
of his tan.
Me? I'm misunderstood,

so hang me too.
Whip me next to Kunta Kinte,
then you'll understand.
Our blood will pool together.
And you'll need a new crayon.