Boil My Strings

Living down here they throw me down and count me



I'm making this up, it keeps my feathers clean



And the black boys they kick my ass and tell me



That the women their ruby lips are dry.



I get angry and i get sad



And i lose this sweetness that i used to have



And i boil my strings



To get them back to gold



Sleeping in here they give me plenty to eat



Don't make trouble, make something with the concrete



So i fill my pipes with it to break them black boys heads



Lord, but i wish i had a gun.


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