(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 cont lactate
Youre 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
Ill shove these foodstamps down your throat
Just to block your airway
And thats the fair way cuz everyday
Youre 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
Ill 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 aint 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
Hed laugh and cackle
Let the leather whip crackle
Send em back to pick tobacco
Shackled
Wouldnt 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 worlds 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?
Im standin on your grave
And Im 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.
Were here at the arlington national cemetary.
Behind all of you, right where the gentleman with the afro is standing,
Is the grave of of americas 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
Ill make you pay for your sins
In the trunk o your benz
See youse an always fitted
Always acquitted
Parasitic leech
Caint be burned off my back
Wit no fiery speech
Your hands is soft as a peach
Cuz you aint never did work
Been rich ever since
Your daddys 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 Id 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
Its about fifty dollars
And thats almost like a sale
Cuz it costs too damn much
To let your rich ass inhale
True liberation aint no word in the head
Im yellin murder em dead
For some fish, steak and bread
You pay me 10 gs a year,
I pay you fifteen million huned? ? ?
Sorry, you just aint in the budget...
(chorus)
The Coup is a political hip hop group based in Oakland, California. It formed as a three-member group in 1992 with emcees Raymond "Boots" Riley and E-Roc along with DJ Pam the Funkstress. E-Roc left on amicable terms after the group's second album but appears on the track "Breathing Apparatus" on The Coup's third album, Steal This Album. The group is now a duo.
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