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.