|
(Chorus)
|
Uhhhh!!
|
I wanna piss on your grave!
|
make me feel alright!
|
Yaa Yaa Yaa!!
|
(Repeat)
|
|
While you was eatin'
|
T-bone steaks
|
in palatial estates,
|
ornate with gates that automate
|
so those you hate could only spectate,
|
I was kissing my mate
|
through iron grates
|
while the guards wait,
|
50 cent rate for making license plates.
|
My papermate pen shakes
|
vibrates from 808 quakes
|
over breaks
|
dug outta crates
|
that sag from weight
|
of the vinyl plates...
|
girls work till they back ache
|
and their breasts con't lactate
|
you're laughin' to the bank
|
smilin', showin' all your plaque flakes
|
contesting, contesting 1,2,3
|
never shoulda been put in the penitentiary
|
Boots from The Coup would like to say
|
I'll shove these foodstamps down your throat
|
just to block your airway
|
and that's the fair way 'cuz everyday
|
you're on a moola mission
|
military killin' millions 'til you low on ammunition
|
bodies beyond recognition
|
twisted complex positions
|
then their kids work in your factories
|
and die of malnutrition
|
see your net profit stats
|
hold some murderous facts
|
but if you listen to the news you mighta
|
heard it was blacks
|
you got us herded in shacks
|
I got the pertinent tax
|
how 'bout the one for when I bust my ass
|
and you relax
|
I'll hit your head wit an axe
|
play soccer wit' your brain
|
to make it official
|
slice your jugular vein
|
still writin' songs that my momma could sang
|
and if you feel some yellow drips on your skull
|
it ain't rain.
|
|
(Chorus)
|
That bitch ass on the front of a buck
|
never gave a fuck
|
he forced his black women slaves
|
to give him dick sucks
|
and when he bust a nut
|
he'd laugh and cackle
|
let the leather whip crackle
|
send 'em back to pick tobacco
|
shackled
|
wouldn't give 'em nil
|
so his homies stacked bills
|
fought on flatland and hill
|
to keep the british out the till, scrill
|
kept Washington dumpin' 'em in ditches
|
so slave owning son of a bitches
|
could keep their riches
|
which is how the war got funded
|
with two centuries of juice
|
from Black slaves bodies
|
and the profits they produced
|
you could deduce
|
that these men might win
|
fit right in
|
and make rights then
|
just for rich white men
|
so they quit fightin'
|
and wrote up a declaration
|
protective decoration
|
for their business operations
|
a gorilla pimpin' nation, no freedom - just savage
|
now the whole world's ravaged
|
from their hunger for the cabbage
|
Your fifth period history teacher
|
tellin' lies like a tweeker
|
bump this song through the speaker
|
watch they face get weaker
|
'less they righteous and they kickin' the facts
|
they gon' smile cuz this shit is on wax
|
one thing I gots to ask
|
George Washington down in hell can you see me?
|
I'm standin' on your grave
|
and I'm finsta take a pee-pee!
|
|
Tour guide: Excuse me sir, did you say you have to pee?
|
Boots: Nah, I said I love it here in D.C.
|
Tour guide: Well, anyway folks, continuing on with the tour.
|
We're here at the Arlington National Cemetary.
|
Behind all of you, right where the gentleman with the afro is standing,
|
is the grave of of America's first and greatest hero, our first president --
|
Pants unzipping
|
George Washington
|
Piss hitting the ground
|
Ohh, uh-uhhhh.
|
Cameras click
|
|
(Chorus)
|
Knock knock muthafucka, yes once again
|
I'll make you pay for your sins
|
in the trunk o' your Benz
|
see youse an always fitted
|
always acquitted
|
parasitic leech
|
cain't be burned off my back
|
wit' no fiery speech
|
your hands is soft as a peach
|
cuz you ain't never did work
|
been rich ever since
|
your daddy's dick went squirt
|
have you ever hurt from your back?
|
ducked from rat-a-tat-tats?
|
seen your mama on crack?
|
lived in a pontiac?
|
drank baby similac
|
so you could have protein?
|
(just for enough energy
|
to hustle up some mo' green?)
|
I could paint some mo' scenes
|
vergin' on the obscene
|
but I'd rather show up at your palace
|
with a mob scene
|
I spoke to my accountant
|
who spoke to my attorney
|
who counseled my financial advisor
|
on a gurney
|
it's about fifty dollars
|
and that's almost like a sale
|
cuz it costs too damn much
|
to let your rich ass inhale
|
true liberation ain't no word in the head
|
I'm yellin' murder 'em dead
|
for some fish, steak and bread
|
you pay me 10 g's a year,
|
I pay you fifteen million hun'ed???
|
Sorry, you just ain't in the budget...
|
|
(Chorus)
|
|
|
-----------------
|
Piss On Your Grave
|
| The Coup |
