In America, my breasts are for sight,
my body a tool for pleasure;
my image is meant for white men’s eyes,
and I’m nothing but a “treasure”.
In America, my skin is a fetish,
my hair is just all wrong;
it must be as straight as John McCain
and three times as long.
In America, my rights are dictated
by men of a different hue;
they think they see all, but actually
they preach from another view.
In America, beauty is white,
and black is somehow exotic;
it’s true, it’s rampant, it’s all the rage,
but somehow I’m psychotic.
In America, my life means less
than that of another pole;
if I were to die or commit suicide,
I’d be another lost soul.