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 a*s 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.