We get, uh, a lot of requests for, for, uh, comments
Generally during interviews and etcetera
About, um, uh, about what people should wear
And what people should do and how people should carry on
Um, we’d like to make one small comment on that
Uh, the name of the poem is Wiggy
And, um, we’ll let the title stand for itself
Here’s Wiggy
Still, Jemima du-head-ragged
Her 1920 mind was gagged
Undigging how very counterfeit that thing
Across her mind did sit
Wiggy
Gold and blonde, blood-red and blue
Sizzled, frizzled, and greasy too
Black woman still dig imitation
The mother of our horse-hair nation
Wiggy
Chemicalize your nappy top
Comb and brush that store-bought mop
Saturday night, you storm the block
Paint resembling electric shock
Woman, you are a laughing stock
Wiggy
Baby, we dig fuzzy heads
Cotton-soft, not woolward lead
Brillo crowns we all adore
As long as we are sure
It’s yours
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