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The Proletariat Speaks, “Wibbidy Wabbidy”

from The Funky Autopsy by Myrlin

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lyrics

(Verse One)

My cash flow is so. . .
Wibbidy-wabbity like my wallet is toppling,
falling like meteors cometing, commenting
like yo, I’m that kid in Monopoly locked in a cell.
I’m always going, clickity-clackity, bibbity-bobbity,
pleading and bargaining, running and bartering.
They hate how I talk, but they love how I’m jargoning.
I live
fresh in this mud, and I hope to be blossoming, but
I don’t
got no people in Washington constantly lobbying on my behalf
in this crooked economy where my wallet is toppling like a victim of prejudiced policy.
I’m so
Wibbidy-wabbity in this game of Monopoly.
Follow me
cuz I’m constantly hollering,
but the boss man ain’t bothering
hearing me, seeing me. It’s clear that he’s fearing me
in the back of the bar, by the cars in his limousine,
like the smile in my mouth is the swing of a guillotine,
so I
plead and I plea
so wearily, carefully, but he ain’t carin.’
His face is so grimacing, nodding not arguing, hardly acknowledging,
when I say, “Excuse me, Sir Louie, please pardon me,
but I got cats in my neighborhood with Uzi’s that the young ones
be following. I got holes in my pockets. I think they are hollowing.”
But he can’t see my pain or the pride I be swallowing,
so I tell him so vividly, viciously, honestly with a few lines of my comedy
like, “Yo, I’m the starving son Adam Smith, bro’,
but don’t forget your wife loves the way a Gardener works, a ha?!

But all he heard was . . .

“Wibbidy-Wabbidy, wabbidy-wibbidy
all my broke people get with me what wha-wha what.”

“Wibbidy-Wabbidy, wabbidy-wibbidy
all my broke people get with me what wha-wha what.”

You got a late rent bill? “Throw your motherfuckin’ hands up!”
Throw your hands up.
Throw your hands up.
You snuck in the party tonight? You better stand up.
You better stand up.
You got no dollar bills? “Throw your motherfuckin’ hands up!”
Throw your hands up.
Throw your hands up.

Yeah. . .
Cuz I’m constantly hollering,
but the boss man ain’t bothering.

Hearing me, seeing me, it’s clear that he’s fearing me. In the back of the bar, by the cars in his limousine, like the smile in my mouth is the swing of a guillotine. So I
plead and I plea, so wearily, carefully, but he ain’t carin.’
His face is so grimacing,

nodding not arguing, hardly acknowledging,
when I say, “Excuse me, Sir Louie, please pardon me,
but I got cats in my neighborhood with Uzi’s that the young ones be following.
I got holes in my pockets, man, I think they are hollowing.”
But
he can’t see my pain or the pride I be swallowing, so
I tell him so vividly, viciously, honestly with a few lines of my comedy
Like, “Yo, hey,
I’m the starving son of Adam Smith, bro’,
but don’t forget your wife loves the way a Gardener works a… ?!”

But all he heard was. . .
“Wibbidy-wabbidy, wabbidy-wibbidy
all my broke people get with me what.”

“Wibbidy-wabbidy, wabbidy wibbidy
all my broke people get with me what wha-wha.”

You got a late rent bill? “Throw your motherfuckin’ hands up!”
Throw your hands up.
You got no dollar bills? “Throw your motherfuckin’ hands up!”
Throw your hands up.
You snuck in the party tonight? You better stand up.
You better stand up.

Cuz my cashflow is so
Wibbidy-wabbity
like my wallet is toppling ha.

credits

from The Funky Autopsy, released July 3, 2013
Audio Engineer: DJ Foundation. Lyrics: Myrlin Hepworth. Instrumental: Outkast “Aquemini”

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Myrlin Phoenix, Arizona

Poet, emcee and teaching artist Myrlin Hepworth has written and performed across the United States. In addition to visiting nearly 30 high schools each year, he makes a living with his art by performing at universities, youth centers, group homes, museums, and theaters. Hepworth has competed in 3 National Poetry Slams and coaches the Phoenix team at Brave New Voices International Youth Poetry Slam ... more

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