By the stairs, there's a fancy black lady,
Shopping for straighteners and magazines.
Her hair is dyed blonde, her eyes green,
And she wears the whitest dress I've seen.
Her bible is of glamorous, golden colors,
Bearing an elephant sticker on its cover.
She caresses the hand of a cowboy lover
And dismisses employees as too far under.
This driver's license she boasts for all present
Classifies her ethnicity as a white lament.
No wonder the census made no sense—
What does it mean to be Puerto Rican?