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.
