25 Bucks, a poem by Daniel Sewell
25 Bucks A poem* by Daniel Sewell (b. 1981; Detroit, MI)
Arthritis in her fingers, carpal tunnel in her wrists 'Bout to feed her kids at night sit between her legs and twist While she listen to the oldie soap operas smoking bogies On the phone gossiping telling homegirls stories:
Girlfriend worried cause her son's in a hurry To see the state pen or a cemetery buried Ma replied do your best but it's still rough, Keep your kids off the street and away from drugs.
Doing hair in the house ain't putting on Daniel Daddy in and out, hey, who turned that channel? Sneakers turn to house shoes stepping on the back Ashing her cigarette in a brown paper bag
Smoking joints, laughin’ tryna get the part straight For ten put your perm in don't scratch all day, Hot cocoa stove, put the food in the bowl Say that's how many nights it was hard to keep going.
Now I'm trapped in the trap and the devil ain't forgettin’ Wanna see me dead or locked in a prison In the system with division only thing that add up Fucked up cause a nigga tryna get a couple bucks,
25 bucks Mama braid your hair, Sit on the porch she'll do it on the stairs, Grew your hair out and you wanna get it twisted Fed us many nights, nigga, that's how we was living.
Iverson zig zags Good night fast food If you really ballin’ Mommy cop Chinese food, If you really wonder why these people got issues Cause the rent owed and the fucking lights due.
On her knees at night, pray a miracle come through, Daddy shooting Craps tryna win a pair of shoes. I been growing my hair 'bout to let mommy twist it, Out wilding with my friends, even got myself a biscuit.
Homie mama smoking with nothing to lose, Now he stashing cracks in some hundred dollar shoes. Sitting at his crib, smoking Swishers, getting faded Told me hit my mommy up, cause he tryna get braided.
What we gon' do? See the local dope man See if he can put some money in our hand, Same one jump me, the same one front me Cause I'm tired of seeing my family fucked up and hungry.
Now I'm trapped in the trap and the devil ain't forgettin’ Wanna see me dead or locked in a prison In the system with division only thing that add up Fucked up nigga tryna get a couple bucks.
*This was not published as a written poem but rather as a rap song under Sewell’s professional name, Danny Brown. The poetic sensibilities of rappers are almost always overlooked in discourse about rap and hip-hop. When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. Perhaps young Bob Dylan fans in the ’60’s and beyond were sick of hearing Dylan’s art referred to as merely the rantings of an angry young Jew. I am sick of hearing various rappers’ art referred to the rantings of angry young black men. Rap can be poetry. Poetry can be art. Let’s start actually listening instead of hearing only what we think we should hear.
