Tricky feat. Maya Angelou

It’s too good
It’s too nice
She makes me finish too quick
Is it love?
No not love
She turns my sexual trick
She says she’s mine, I know she lies
First, I scream, then I cry.
Take a second of me
You beckon, I’ll be
She suffocates me
She suffocates me with suggestion
I asked ‘do you feel the same?’
And later on, maybe
I’ll tell you my real name
She’s so good, she’s so bad
You understand, I can’t stand
Now I could just kill a Man
She’s on her knees, I say please
I caress her silly lies, she’s got brown eyes
I think ahead of you, I think instead of you
Will you spend your life with me
And stifle me?
I know why the caged bird sings, I know why

Forgive and you’re forgiven
Kingdom come
Can you wait for yours, I need to taste some
Life’s pretty funny, I laugh while she spends my money
She’s my freak
I guess I’m weak
You ask what is this?
Mind your business
I pass my idle days with my idle ways
‘til the twelfth of always
She walks my hallways
I keep her warm, but we never kiss
She cuts my slender wrists
Let’s waste some more time
I sign the dotted line
A different level
She-devil

You ask what is this?
Mind your business
I pass my idle days with my idle ways
Til the twelfth of always
She walks my hallways
I keep her warm but we never kiss
She says I’m weak and immature
But it’s cool
I know what money’s for.
Push comes to shove, her tongue’s her favorite weapon on attack
I slap her back, she mostly hates me.

Can I take off your clothes
Before we go out
And when you’re helpless, I’ll scream and shout
We finish everyday
(well, anyway)
Sixty-nine degrees
My head’s between your knees.

Tricky, Suffocated Love

 

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

un caco verde, o forse un limone

Wouldn’t they be surprised when one day I woke out of my black ugly dream, and my real hair, which was long and blond, would take the place of the kinky mass that Momma wouldn’t let me straighten? My light-blue eyes were going to hypnotize them, after all the things they said about “my daddy must of been a Chinaman” (I thought they meant made out of china, like a cup) because my eyes were so small and squinty Then they would understand why I had never picked up a Southern accent, or spoke the common slang, and why I had to be forced to eat pigs’ tails and snouts. Because I was really white and because a cruel fairy stepmother, who was understandably jealous of my beauty, had turned me into a too-big Negro girl, with nappy black hair, broad feet and a space between her teeth that would hold a number-two pencil.
“What you looking …” The minister’s wife leaned toward me, her long yellow face full of sorry. She whispered, “I just come to tell you, it’s Easter Day.” I repeated, jamming the words together, “Ijustcometotellyouit’sEasterDay” as low as possible. The giggles hung in the air like melting clouds that were waiting to rain on me. I held up two fingers, close to my chest, which meant that I had to go to the toilet, and tiptoed toward the rear of the church. Dimly, somewhere over my head, I heard ladies saying, “Lord bless the child,” and “Praise God.” My head was up and my eyes were open, but I didn’t see anything. Halfway down the aisle, the church exploded with “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?” and I tripped over a foot stuck out from the children’s pew. I stumbled and started to say something, or maybe to scream, but a green persimmon, or it could have been a lemon, caught me between the legs and squeezed. I tasted the sour on my tongue and felt it in the back of my mouth. Then before I reached the door, the sting was burning down my legs and into my Sunday socks. I tried to hold, to squeeze it back, to keep it from speeding, but when I reached the church porch I knew I’d have to let it go, or it would probably run right back up to my head and my poor head would burst like a dropped watermelon, and all the brains and spit and tongue and eyes would roll all over the place. So I ran down into the yard and let it go. I ran, peeing and crying, not toward the toilet out back but to our house. I’d get a whipping for it, to be sure, and the nasty children would have something new to tease me about. I laughed anyway, partially for the sweet release; still, the greater joy came not only from being liberated from the silly church but from the knowledge that I wouldn’t die from a busted head.

I know
Maya Angelou
I know why the caged bird sings
Random House, 2009