The Prophecy of Mbantunyankompong

Mau Mau Propers for the Pope



On Friday, April first, the triple sixes,
The devil’s number, on April Fools Day
One day before the pope’s eternal slumber*
Say a sign: Mehmet Ali Agca.
The die rolled from Shaytaan’s tumbler.
Pope passed away the next day Saturday.

Set it off, niggers, for a superficial deity
Steeped in crimes enriched by thievery
Supported by dictators and presidents,
Adored by maquiladoras and sweatshop
Tyrants y’all, holding us by our balls.

Black slave truly worshipping the master
Instead of hating and defying bondage, rather
Were the master the same race or nationality
As the slave, should that mitigate the apostasy?

What’s your Nine-Eleven, niggers!

Go insane. Forget thinking, open your minds:
Fill the clip, slide close the bolt. Shut your lip.

Perhaps the slaps USA serves upside our naps
Shall someday soon earn a president coon
Or the Catholic Church a nonwhite pope.

To hope in that worse than shooting dope.

In that case put the barrel up to your face
Blast your goddamn brains all over the place.

One ecumenical joke compounded upon another.
One in particular deems the pope infallible
One pope turned to fertilizer, recycle.

Donald DeFreeze time, niggers. Shit. Cinque.

For the all powerful to depict the enslaved
In a position of power is an illusion engraved
Upon suckers paying to win a billionaire lottery
Waged on triple sixes, on April Fools Day. Hay
For you, the flip side of the illusion serves
Just a smell, deluding bombers with shaky nerves
On hopes of a cross-burning pope stuffed into Hell.

Pray to that pimp while you sweat in jail.

Triple sixes onna popes death bed, niggers!

And yet you step aside for simple shit, a dead
Antichrist, the mark upside a dragon’s head
Not upon it, leprous stains the soul within
The Mark of Oppression, niggers, not of Sin
Black skin for sinners, Oppressors wear white.
Sinners swap threads with Oppressors overnite.

Same sinners swap spit with Oppressors for cash
Asses fatuous to be freed from the Crackers lash.

What’s your Nine-Eleven, motherfucker.

Nobody from Heaven returns inflight to overthrow
This Devilz Paradise and set things right. So
Such stinking thinking strips you down
Rips you down, clowns you, frowns on you
Your hesitation forces black fighters to dissolve
Back from the streets, staked out, delayed. Resolved.

Sidelined niggers venting anger. Vent, niggers!

Dedan Kimathi. Musab Al Zarqawi. Vent that.

Crazy niggers, wild niggers, killing crackers dead
Niggers with million dollar bounties on they head.
Pick the fuck up on that, Africans, pick up the gun
Where’s the pope mobile see it catch it run
Like the Putin grenade at Bush flung so untoward
And fuck the pope and his goddamn peace award.

Damn him and sainthood, no good malingerer
To him and his successor, Ratslinger, the finger
Yeh with that Sunday voodoo shit on they altar.

Yeh stiff-assed hymns to a stiff-assed god of stone
Nailed to a plus, fed to dogs, Isa’s doctrine blown
Contaminated by an apostate Paul, a devil at large.

Conflagrations set by heretic popes on their charge
Suffer no apologists for slavery and genocide
To targets, hoes, who shed blood in fratricide
As rifle bolts slide forward silently, stealthily
Processions of machete-toting zombies infallibly
Committed on papal authority glide to they death,
From Kinshasa to Bujumbura, a blood soaked path
Bodies in heaps, graves en masse, now chant a mass:

Who blessed the bombs and blessed the armies
And bullets which saturated flesh, sliced arteries
For the glory of the church so that Carol Wojtyla,
Pope John Paul II, gained spoils of Vatican imperialism?

We cling to the excesses and culture to the very end.

Samora Machel, motherfuckers. George Habash.

The pope aint your friend, don’t like pussy
Don’t like niggers, but will spend your money
Swaggering with balls bigger than you can bear
Them damn popes aint no closer to God, the knaves
Than Washington came to freeing the slaves.

Should any lord of the Age of Expansion fear,
Or repudiate the power which brought them here?

From this very day, television commercials parade
Niggers in every conceivable position displayed
Projecting illusions of success, delusions nonetheless
Wealth fame fortune love beauty happiness conquest
Perceptions of what is but which also facilitates
Mainstreaming niggers thru these United Snakes.

Is everybody buying it is everybody trying it
Jumping off the boat for the pope’s lying shit?

Because the pope started all this with Da Gama
In 1492, along with that other flat world ‘bama
Colon. Now five hundred years far too long
Just different music playing to the same old song.

What’s your goddamn Nine-One-One, niggers?

Before we were niggers, before the Conquistadors
Before Da Gama bombed Mombasa, before
You remember what we really were, we had
Diamonds in the fields, made love in gardens by
Sweet fountains of the Niger in an African eden
Kings black as midnight, palaces draped in gold
And African queens dressed in riches untold
Warriors big as boats, seven foot tall, their
Spears tipped with iron, sharpened for war
Physicians philosophers sages of Sankore
Artisans aristocrats and shepherds of Ile-Ife
Catching the sun, children played care-free
Until the popes gangs came to ravage Society.

Soon after, other Europeans arrived in their wake
Yet the chimera first sprang from the popes own cape
Villages destroyed, soldiers deployed from dungeons
Force marching captive Africans into floating coffins.

From black maidens in bondage, black farmers in chains
The shackle the lash the mace bashing brains
Burnt branded tattooed like cattle and chattel
To New Millennium babies gulping cold oatmeal
Fast, as women sell their bodies for a cocaine blast…

Youth spinning Vogues, stalking with Glocks
Track down one another over handfuls of rocks.

Vibe on the corner, promoting ghetto fab glamour
To hustlers one slip away from a trip to the slammer.

Our once free world now turned right-side wrong
A dance set in motion to the popes droning gong.
Negro sell outs cop out for a chance to get paid
Like a trick in a trance by a whore, getting played…

Uprising on the horizon, streets furiously a swirl
The burnt flesh of necklaces in the air, that smell
So what’s your Nine-Eleven, niggers? Do tell.

Nat Turner, bitches. Mau Mau time.




*(On Friday, April first, 2005, one day before Pope John Paul II passed away, the Pennsylvania Lottery turned out 6-6-6 on the evening numbers draw. That provided part of the inspiration for this poem, which I had written a few months later. This is a repost from URC Discuss; hope it sets some hearts on fire.)



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