Single white female living in the ATL.
Niggas want to mix my vanilla with their dark chocolate.
Ready to rap me a rhyme and give me some smoke for some of my time.
Latino men ready to sing me some Spanish songs and buy me some corona and lime.
Them guys telling me I’m a dime but I don’t want to be measured by looks,
and if I did I wouldn’t want them to be measured with coins.
Black guys have the softest lips,
and Latinos tienen las mas bonitas palabras.
Niggas have the best cush,
and Mexicans have the best alcohol.
But niggas and senores aren’t the ones on my mind.
And weed and beer is not what I’m craving for.
I’m itching for some pills to take off the edge and keep me sane,
or some liquid heroin to suck at the wounds in my veins.
And niggas and senores don’t fuck with that shit like white boys do.
They don’t have the same death wish that my race do.
Some white girls won’t fuck with niggas and senores out of fear.
But I’m not afraid of black and brown like I fear control from the white man.
While I enjoy rap and yo puedo conversar en Espanol,
my roots and my core are rock and roll.
I can’t twerk like my home girls and I can’t dance like Spanish women.
But give me a ball with some grip and some high top shoes and I can ball with the best black dudes.
I’m used to being the only white girl in the room,
and I’m used to getting curious looks and looks like I don’t belong.