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I'm gonna piss on yo' grave! Make me feel alright! Yeah, yeah, yeow! While you was eatin' t-bone steaks in palatial estates ornate with gates that automate so those who hate can only spectate I was kissin' my mate, through iron grates while the guards wait fifty cent rate for makin' license plates My papermate pen shake vibrate from 808 quakes over breaks, dug outta crates Letras de cancionesthat sag from weight of the vinyl plates girls work 'til they back ache and they breast can't lactate ya laughin' to the bank, similn' showin' all your plaque flakes Contesting, contesting, one, two, three 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 the airway and that's the fair way "cause everyday your on the moola mission military killin' millions 'til your low on ammunition Bodies beyond recognition, twisted complex positions then they kids work in your factories and die of malnutrition See your net profit stats, hold some murderous facts But if ya listen to the news you mighta heard it was blacks You got us herdin' in shacks I got the pertinent tax How 'bout the one for when I bust my ass and you relax I hit your head with an axe Play soccer wit' your brain To make it official, slice your jugular vein Still writin' songs that my momma can sang and if you feel some yellow drips on your skull it ain't rain I'm gonna piss on yo' grave! Make me feel alright! Yeah, yeah, yeow! That bitch ass on the front of a buck he never gave a fuck He force his black women slaves to give him dick sucks And when he busta nut, he 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, that Washington, dumpin' 'em in ditches So slave owning son-of-a-bitches could keep they riches Which is how the war got funded with two centuries of juice Our black slave bodies and the profits they produce 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 they business operations a guerilla pimpin' nation no freedom just savage The whole world's ravaged for they hunger for the cabbage Your fifth period history teacher tellin' lies like a tweaker bump this song through the speaker watch they face get weaker 'less they righteous and the kickin' the facts they goin' smile 'cause this shit is on wax One thing I gotts to ask George Washington down in hell, can you see me? 'Cause I'm standin' on your grave and I finsta take a pee pee [skit] [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] I'm gonna piss on yo' grave! Make me feel alright! Yeah, yeah, yeow! Knock, knock motherfucker, yes once again I'll make ya pay for your sins in the trunk of ya benz sees youz an always fitted, always acquitted, parasitic leach can't be burned off my back wit' 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 ratta-tat-tats? Seen your momma on crack? Lived in a Pontiac? Drink 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 the palace with a mob scene I spoke with 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 to 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 ten Gs a year I pay you fifty million hun'ed Sorry you just ain't in the budget look at the birdy now I'm gonna piss on yo' grave! Make me feel alright! Yeah, yeah, yeow! I'm gonna piss on yo' grave! Make me feel alright! Yeah, yeah, yeow! From Letras Mania