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Boil my Strings
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Living down here they throw me down and count me
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I'm making this up, it keeps my feathers clean
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and the black boys they kick my ass and tell me
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that the women their ruby lips are dry.
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I get angry and I get sad
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and I lose this sweetness that I used to have
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and I boil my strings
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to get them back to gold
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sleeping in here they give me plenty to eat
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don't make trouble, make something with the concrete
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so I fill my pipes with it to break them black boys heads
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Lord, but I wish I had a gun.
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Boil my Strings
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| The Gourds |
