Ever seen a black man in chains?
‘cause yo' bling lookin’ a little heavy homie,
draggin’ you down by the neck,
bendin’ you down an' bringin’ you to your knees,
an' them iced out rings you rockin'
keep pullin’ yo fingers toward that trigger.
Yeah, you heard me.
You ain’t pickin’ they cotton no mo'
But them threads, they still got yo' blood on ‘em.
Fuck it.
Break them chains.
Ditch them gold plated guns ‘n’ grenades,
‘cause the whole fuckin’ thing is still they dance,
it’s still the same ol' guided death waltz,
lettin’ you CK BK your own way into nameless
thugged out graves; it’s still the same old
hatecraft, them rich fucks up on the hill
playin' king, only now you puttin’ the shackles
on yo'self, and we got cell phones
an' Big Macs instead o' whips . Nope.
Ain’t no whip scars no mo',
But they still killin' you.
