The negros were restless and up to no good.
Lookouts were perched at each corner with care,
To alert all the crack-dens if police came there.
Fumes of Mad Dog and weed wafted strong through the air,
While addicts shot smack, with nary a care.
The children had braided their cornrows real tight,
In hopes the Kwanzaa Bunny would visit that night.
The Crips and the Bloods made their holiday peace;
Vowing in common to “F*ck the PO-lice.” Old ladies and invalids hid under their beds,
While visions of race riots danced in their heads.
In a crack-house, some pipe-heads were lighting more rock,
When all of a sudden there came a loud knock.
Then what to their wondering eyes did appear,
But St. Louis’ finest, in full riot gear!
Doors ripped from their hinges and crashed to the floor,
As miscreants screamed, terrified to their core.
The cops went to work with their nightsticks in hand,
Swinging at skulls as the Africans ran.
A beating ensued as they tried to escape,
And nobody got it on videotape!!!
A loud cry was heard by those able to flee:
”HAPPY KWANZAA YOU PUNKS, FROM THE SLPD!”