Who am I to judge?

De way yu wear yuh hair
Touching, poking, feeling, sticking-
I won’ even lay a stare.
Fah de way I wear me hair
Is not as good as yours
It’s filled wid de mystery of unknown cultures-
But yu don’ wanna hear no more.
Who am I to judge?
When mi hair cannt be tamed
All me can do is try to explain-
That mi hair will nevah be de same.
Everyday:
Yu tempt me wit advice,
Yu whisper in mi ear
Advice of hellish heat and pain
You wahn me to suffer an
“Put it back in braids” or straighten it again
An again
An again.
But who am I to judge
Wid mi skin as dark as night?
Fah de colour of mi skin
Gives yuh children quite a fright.
If only yu could see dat
I am not from de gang nearby
I am not part of the Crips, Bloods, or even de Kumi 4 1 5’s-
Who is god to judge?
When You hav’ perfec skin, white as snow
Wid blonde hair that flows,
Acceptable and natural.
Just as everything should go.
Me hair is natural too but
Who is me to Judge?
When ye mock de broken english dat
slips
Right off me foreign tongue.
Yu speak perfec english
An accent angelic as can be
An sometimes I just pray, I plead
Dat I was yuh an you were me