Gil Scott-Heron Album

Picture a man of nearly thirty
Who seemed twice as old with clothes torn and dirty
Give him a job shining shoes
Or cleaning out toilets with bus station crews
Give him six children with nothing to eat
Expose them to life on a ghetto street
Tie an old rag around his wife's head
And have her pregnant and lying in bed
Stuff them all in a Harlem house
And then tell them how bad things are down South.

In 1600 I was a darkie
Until 1865, a slave
In 1900 I was a nigger
Or at least, that was my name

In 1960 I was a negro
And then brother Malcom came along
And then some nigger shot Malcom down
But the bitter truth lives on

Martin is dead
With Martin as our leader
We prayed, and marched
And marched, and prayed
Things were changing
Things were getting better
But things were not together

With Malcom as our leader,
We learned
And thought
And thought we had learned
Things were better
Things were changing
But things were not together

And now it is your turn,
We are tired of praying, and marching, and thinking, and learning
Brothers wanna start cutting, and shooting, and stealing, and burning
You are three hundred years ahead in equality
But next summer may be too late
To look back

In 1600 I was a darkie
And until 1865 a slave
In 1900 I was a nigger
Or at least that was my name

In 1960 I was a negro
And then Malcom came along
Yes, but some nigger shot Malcom down
Though the bitter truth lives on

Well now I am a black man
And though I still go second class
Where as once I wanted the white man's love
Now he can kiss my ass

Find a shadow cast by rainbows
There you'll meet the sage.
Feeding rabbits bits of lettuce or cleaning out the cage.
He can give you more direction than you've ever known.
Show you your bronzed baby shoes
Now, my how you have grown!
Ain't it nice to fly? You're waving as soft clouds go by,
But Peace won't be still of its own free will.
Say you want to go exploring; you got to find some truth.
Can't stand one more day of Christians shouting down at you.
You say you don't dig politics that never was your bag.
People who could run for office wave their private flag.
Ain't it nice to fly? You're waving as soft clouds go by,
But peace won't be still of its own free will
Ain't it nice to fly? You're waving as soft clouds go by,
But peace won't be still of its own free will.

A rat done bit my sister Nell.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Her face and arms began to swell.
(and Whitey's on the moon)
I can't pay no doctor bills.
(but Whitey's on the moon)
Ten years from now I'll be payin' still
While Whitey's on the moon.
You know, the man jus' upped my rent las' night,
'cause Whitey's on the moon.
No hot water, no toilets, no lights,
but Whitey's on the moon.
I wonder why he's uppi' me?
'cause Whitey's on the moon?
Well I wuz already givin' 'im fifty a week
And now Whitey's on the moon.
Taxes takin' my whole damn check,
The junkies make me a nervous wreck,
The price of food is goin' up,
An' as if all that crap wuzn't enough,
A rat done bit my sister Nell.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Her face an' arms began to swell
And Whitey's on the moon.
Was all that money I made las' year
For Whitey on the moon?
How come I ain't got no money here?
Hmm! Whitey's on the moon.
Y'know I jus' about had my fill
Of Whitey on the moon.
I think I'll sen' these doctor bills,
Airmail special

To Whitey on the moon

Standing in the ruins
Of another Black man's life,
or flying through the valley
They're separating day and night.
"I am death," cried the Vulture.
"For the people of the light."

Charon brought his raft
and came from the sea that sails on souls,
And saw the scavenger departing,
taking warm hearts to the cold.
He knew the ghetto was the haven
for the meanest creature ever known.

In a wilderness of heartbreak
and a desert of despair,
Evil's carrion of justice
shrieks a cry of naked terror.
He's taking babies from their momas
and leaving grief beyond compare.

So if you see the Vulture coming,
he's flying circles in your mind,
Remember there is no escaping
for he will follow close behind.
Only promised me a battle,
battle for your soul and mine.

He taking babies from their momas
And he's leaving
Leaving
Leaving
Leaving
Leaving

This is just like listening
to a conversation being held
by the many people who congregate
on one of the most popular blocks
in the largest area of black America

Did you ever eat cornbread and black eye peas
Or watermelon and mustard greens?
Get high as you can on Saturday night
Go to church on Sunday to set things right

Listen

I seen Miss Blake after Willy yesterday
She'd've killed anybody who got in her way
Hey look I got a TV for a pound on the head
And Jimmy Jean got the best Panamanian Red

No I ain't got on no underclothes
But we all got to get through this gypsy rose
I think Clay got his very good points
You say a trade bag with thirteen joints?

Who cares if LBJ is in town?
Up with Stokely and H. Rap Brown
I don't know if the riots is wrong
But whitey's been kickin' my ass for too long

I was s'posed to baby but they held my pay.
Did you hear what the number was yesterday?
Junkies is all right when they ain't broke
They leaves you alone when they high on dope

Damn, but I wish I could get up and move
Shut up. Hell you know that ain't true.

The economy is in an uproar
The whole damn countries is in the red
Tax and fairs are going up
You say, "Billy Green is dead"?
The government can't decide on bussin'
or at least thats what they said

Yea I heard you, when you told me
You said, "Billy Green was dead"
But let me tell you bout these hot-pants that this big legged sister wore
when i partied with the alphas
what?
Billy took an overdose
well now junkies will be junkies
but did you see Gunsmoke last night?
man they had themselves a shootout and folks was dyin' left and right
At the end when Matt was cornerd i had damn near give up hope

What you? Why you keep on interrupting me? you say, My son is taking dope?
Call the law and call the doctor!
What you mean i shouldn't scream?
My only son is taking dope?
Should i sit here like I'm pleased?

Is that familiar anybody?

Check out whats inside your head
Because it never seems to matter
when it's Billy Green who's dead

[No lyrics]

I know you think you're cool
Lord if they bus your kids to school
I know you think you're cool
Just cuz they bus your kids to school
But you ain't got a thing to lose
You just got the get out of the ghetto blues
I know you think you're cool
If you're gettin' two WELFARE checks
You done told me you think you're cool
Because you're gettin' two WELFARE checks
Yea but you got ten years to lose (if they catch you)
Just tryin' to fight that get out of the ghetto blues
If he don't catch you in the wash
Lord knows he'll catch you in the rinse
I know you think you're cool
Just cuz you shooting that stuff in your arm
I seen you nodding
Cuz you shoot that stuff in your arm
And it don't matter which pine box you choose
You got the get out of the ghetto blues

[No lyrics]

You explained it to me I must admit
But just for the record you were talkin' shit
Y'all rap about no knock bein' legislated
For the people you've always hated
In this hell hole you, we, call home

No knock, the man will say
To keep that man from beating his wife
No knock, the man will say
To protect people from themselves

No knockin', head-rockin', inter-shockin'
Shootin', cussin', killin', cryin', lyin'
And bein' white
No knock

No knocked on my brother Fred Hampton
Bullet holes all over the place
No knocked on my brother Michael Harris
And jammed a shotgun against his skull

For my protection?
Who's gonna protect me from you?
The likes of you?
The nerve of you?
Your tomato face deadpan
Your dead hands ending another freedom fan

No knockin', head rockin', inter-shockin'
Shootin', cussin', killin', cryin', lyin'
And bein' white

But if you're wise, no knocker
You'll tell your no-knockin' lackeys
Ha!
No knock on my brother's head
No knock on my sister's head
No knock on my brother's head
No knock on my sister's head

And double lock your door
Because soon someone may be no-knockin'
Ha, ha!
For you

(No knock: To be slipped into John Mitchell's suggestion box.)

it was not enough that we were bought and brought to this home as the slave, locked in the bowels of a floating shithouse, watching those we love eaten away by plauge and insanity, flesh falling like strips of bark from a termite-infested tree, bones rotting turning first to brittle ivory then to resin.
that was not enough.
it was not enough that we were chained to leg irons, black on black with a piss stained wall forced to heed nature's call through and inside of tattered rags that strained our privates, and evidently years of slavery did not appease your need to be superior to something like a crazed lion hung up on being the king of his corner of the cage, backs bent under the wieght of being everything and having nothing, minds too like bomerrangs curving back into themselves kicked and carved by the face-straining smiles that saved my life.
that was not enough.
somehow i can not believe that it would be enough for me to melt with you and integrate without the thoughts of rape and murder. i cannot conceive of peace on earth until i have given you a piece of lead or pipe to end your worthless motherfucking exitence. imagine your nightmares of my sneaking into a vieled of satin bedroom and attacking your daughter, wife and mother at once ripping open their bowels sexually like a wishbone. imagine that magnified a million times when you realize that the blinders have been stripped from my eyes and I realize that slavery was no smiling happy-fizzy party. your ancestors raped my foremothers and i will not forget. i will not forget that Yale or Harvard or Princeton or In-Hell because you are on my mind. i see you everytime my woman walks down the street with her ass on her shoulders. i see you everytime i look in the mirror and think about the times that i would pat myself on the back for not being too black afterall. i think of you morning, noon and night and i wonder, "just exactly what in hell is enough?" everytime i see a rope or gun i remember, and to top it all of you ain't through yet. over fifty you have killed in mississippi since 1963. that doesn't even begin to begin all of those you have maimed, hit and run over, blinded, poisoned, starved, or castrated. i hope you do not think that a vote for John Kennedy took you off my shit-list because in the street there will only be black and white. there will be no Democrats, Republicans, Liberals, Conservatives, Moderates, or any other of the rest of that shit you have used to make me forget to hate.
there ain't no enough. there ain't no surrender. there is only plot and plan, move and groove, kill. there is no promise land. there is only the promise. the promise is not vowel until we have been nerve gassed, shot down and murdered, or done some of the same ourselves. look over your shoulder motherfucker, i am coming.

Many suggestions
And documents written.
Many directions
For the end that was given.
They gave us
Pieces of silver and pieces of gold.
Tell me,
Who'll pay reparations on my soul?

Many fine speeches (oh yeah)
From the White House desk (uh huh)
Written on the cue cards
That were never really there. Yes,
But the heat and the summer were there
And the freezing winter's cold. Now
Tell me,
Who'll pay reparations on my soul?

Call my brother a junkie 'cause he ain't got no job (no job, no job).
Told my old man to leave me when times got hard (so hard).
Told my mother she got to carry me all by herself.
And now that I want to be a man (be a man) who can depend on no one else (oh yeah).
What about the red man
Who met you at the coast?
You never dig sharing;
Always had to have the most.
And what about Mississippi,
The boundary of old?
Tell me,
Who'll pay reparations on my soul?

Call my brother a junkie 'cause he ain't got no job
Told my old man to leave me when times got hard (so hard).
Told my mother she got to carry me all by herself.
Wanna be a man that can depend on no one else (oh yeah).
What about the red man,
Who met you at the coast?
You never dig sharing;
Always had to have the most.
And what about Mississippi,
The boundaries of old?
Tell me,
Who'll pay reparations on my soul?

Many fine speeches (oh yeah)
From the White House desk (uh huh)
Written on the cue cards
That were never really there. Yes,
But the heat and the summer were there
And the freezing winter's cold.
Tell me,
Who'll pay reparations on my soul?
Who'll pay reparations,
‘Cause I don't dig segregation, but I
can't get integration
I got to take it to the United Nations,
Someone to help me away from this nation.
Tell me,
Who'll pay reparations on my soul?

A junkie walking through the twilight
I'm on my way home
I left three days ago, but no one seems to know I'm gone
Home is where the hatred is
Home is filled with pain and it,
might not be such a bad idea if i never, never went home again

stand as far away from me as you can and ask me why
hang on to your rosary beads
close your eyes to watch me die
you keep saying, kick it, quit it, kick it, quit it
God, but did you ever try
to turn your sick soul inside out
so that the world, so that the world
can watch you die

home is where I live inside my white powder dreams
home was once an empty vacuum that's filled now with my silent screams
home is where the needle marks
try to heal my broken heart
and it might not be such a bad idea if I never, if I never went home again
home again
home again
home again
kick it, quit it
kick it, quit it
kick it, quit it
kick it, can't go home again

You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message
bbout a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.