Piss On Your Grave Lyrics

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

that 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!