Messing with our own dialect as inspired Claude McKay’s “A Midnight Woman to the Bobby”

What did they just say?

What did they just say?

Nah, dude it’s all gravy
Whatchu doin tonight?
we gettin after it?
ight man word to the purple bird, stop by
we’ll see what’s good.

it’s done so much that, to us
we are speaking perfect English.
all the perplexed faces that pass by,
they have no idea, not even a bit
as we sit burn’n a boge, making plans
with a casual smile.

we all sound like the village idiot,
rambling on, with phrases
that would make a sane man flip his wig.
it’s all good though, the just don’t know

Don’t know that woven into all the
“Yeeww”s that are pushed out from
passing cars, and carried by
revolving wheels of urethane
actually are a small acknowledgement
of our existence, a sign of respect
from one hommie to another.

that it’s all part of the plan, man,
to weed out the ones that see
only young fools spitting a glob
of nonsense from an aging porch

that’s straight though,
cause we’ll checkya in a minute
as you stumble back, to
try and comprehend what we just said.