You dedicate
this song to my slanted eyes
hoping that I’ll
be yours,
Your Asian girl.
You picture yourself
planting your
face
on my yellow
thighs
like they are
sticky rice.
You imagine my
mouth
all over your
egg roll
then shoving it
to my dim sum
until I cum.
Your Asian girl.
You sing your
piece
like it is
karaoke,
trying to pursue
me
in terrible
Japanese,
but keep your
feng shui shit.
It’s the Year of
the Dragon,
but you don’t
want to
mess with this
dragon.
I’m not G-Dragon
I can’t rap or
rock
blonde
dreadlocks
But I can try
rapping
about the
misconception of
dreadlocks like
you sing about
the
misconception
of my culture.
If you ask me if
I’m 17 or 23,
I’ll just say,
“Baby, I’m 50.”
just to screw
with your mind.
And every day in
February is
a New Year
because it’s the countdown
to the day I was
born
LEGALLY.
Have you been to
K-Town?
China Town?
Japan Town?
Bet you don’t
have enough
won to travel to
the real
continents
since you’re too
busy
butt fuckin’
a ninja pussy.
Now, you want me
to sit on your
lap and
marry you or
you’ll put me in
a box
and send me back
like I’m a
replaceable China doll.
If that’s the case,
Where’s my
suitcase?
Send me back
To my
ancestor’s,
My mother’s
Homeland,
So, I don’t have
To be fucked by
you
Don’t ask me where
I come from.
I don’t know
what it’s like to live in Japan,
China, or Korea.
Not even if I
read it off a travel book.
I can’t
pronounce oka-san without it saying
in my most
white-washed tongue.
I don’t know
My mother’s
language by heart,
But if you dedicate
your next song
with only boba
tea,
Bruce Lee,
And broken
Chinese,
I’ll smile and
say in English,
“Sorry, I don’t understand
nonsense.”
