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