[Intro: Shyheim]

Yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah, yeah

It's Young God, Shyheim

Yeah, Bottom Up Records, I'm CEO, nigga

But it's still Wu-Tang, you heard?

This goes out to all the political prisoners

DLA, stay g'd up, what



[Shyheim]

Stay on top comrade, cuz the bottom is crowded

The bottom is bout it, on the bottom it pops everybody wildin'

On a mission wantin' the riches and the baddest bitches

Ghetto chemists, gloves and masks in the kitchen

Dope and cut mixing, the bottom, somebody's mother's addicted

The bottom's black and hispanics in prison, the bottom's the unprivileged

The top is the drop, the top is the yacht

The top is this fly here, Cardier watch

Another coffin with the body of my friend in it

An untimely death, and I can't quite, comprehend it

Whoever told you, being a thug is fun, lie

Many nights in my cell, late at night I cried

So ashamed of myself, from myself I tried to hide

Thought the high would ease the pain, but it didn't

I smelt the death in the airs, walkin' through the halls of Clinton

God borns build to destroy, build to destroy borns God



[Interlude: Shyheim]

I wrote it for a pound in my palms

Borns a bullet in your heart, motherfucker

Shit, just listen, nigga

I ain't askin' y'all niggaz to dance

I ain't askin' y'all niggaz to sing along or nothing homey

Listen to your boy, fool



[Shyheim]

Fuck the messenger, pay attention to the message

About this oppression, after descretion, of the department of corrections

I'm a felon in they crooked institutions, so I'm considered a slave

According to the constitution, thirteenth amendment

Officers try to discover your loved ones, when they come and visit

And phone calls be ridiculous, three ninety nine for the first

And nineteen cents, these additional minutes

Behind these cold walls, these d'evils, be killin' people

Like it's legal, tax payers, this is what your money goes to

State prisons got bigger budgets than schools

Keep 'em dumb and lock 'em up, warehouse, double bunk and stack 'em up

White cracker, on the top of the roof, shot me dead for spreadin' the truth

Will I go down in history like Malcolm, get me my own boulevard

That my own black peoples, will go and sell crack on