Wiggy

Gil Scott-Heron


We get, uh, a lot of requests for, for, uh, comments-generally during interviews and etcetera-about, um, uh, aheheh, 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 laughingstock
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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