Boots Riley - Piss On Your Grave lyrics

[Hook] Uhhhh!! I wanna piss on your grave! Make me feel alright! Yaa Yaa Yaa!! Uhhhh!! I wanna piss on your grave! And it feels alright! Yaa Yaa Yaa!! [Verse 1 - Boots Riley] While you was eating 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 Paper Mate pen shake Vibrate from 808 quakes over breaks dug outta crates That sag from weight of the vinyl plates Girls work till they back ache And they breasts can't lactate You're laughing to the bank Smiling, showing 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 food stamps down your throat Just to block your airway And that's the fair way cause every day you're on a moolah mission Military k**ing millions til you're low on ammunition Bodies beyond recognition, twist in 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 a** and you relax I'll hit your head with an axe, play soccer with your brain To make it official, slice your jugular vein Still writing songs that my momma could sang And if you feel some yellow drips on your skull, it ain't rain [Hook] [Verse 2] That b**h a** on the front of a buck never gave a f** He forced his black women slaves to give him dick s**s And when he'd 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 flat lands and hills to keep the British out the till Scrill kept Washington dumping em in ditches So slave owning son of a b**hes could keep their riches Which is how the war got funded with two centuries of juice Of 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 fighting and wrote up a declaration Protective decoration for they business operations A gorilla pimping nation -- no freedom, just savage The whole world's ravaged from their hunger for the cabbage Your fifth period history teacher Telling lies like a tweaker Bump this song through the speaker, watch they face get weaker 'less they righteous and they kicking the facts They gon' smile cause this sh** is on wax One thing I gots to ask: George Washington, down in hell can you see me? I'm standing on your grave and I'm finsta take a pee-pee! [Interlude] Tour guide: Excuse me sir, did you say you have to pee? Boots: No, 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 -- [Sound of pants unzipping] George Washingt.. [Sound of pissing] Ohh, uh-uhhhh [Cameras click] [Hook] [Verse 3] Knock knock motherf**er, yes once again I'll make you pay for your sins in the trunk of your Benz See, you's an always fitted, always acquitted parasitic leech Can't be burned off my back with no fiery speech Your hands is soft as a peach cause 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, verging 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 Cause it costs too damn much to let your rich a** inhale True liberation ain't no word in the head I'm yelling, "Murder 'em dead!" for some fish, steak, and bread You pay me 10 g's a year, I pay you fifteen million hundred?! Sorry, you just ain't in the budget Look at the birdie, now.. [Hook]