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 ass 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.