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lirik lagu coup - piss on your grave

uhhhh!
i wanna p-ss on your grave!
make me feel alright!
yaa yaa yaa!

while you was eatin’
t-bone steaks
in palatial estates,
ornate with gates that automate
so those you hate could only spectate,
i was kissing my mate
through iron grates
while the guards wait,
50 cent rate for making license plates.

my papermate pen shakes
vibrates from 808 quakes
over breaks
dug outta crates
that sag from weight
of the vinyl plates…
girls work till they back ache
and their br–sts con’t lactate
you’re laughin’ to the bank
smilin’, showin’ all your plaque flakes

contesting, contesting 1, 2, 3
never shoulda been put in the penitentiary
boots from the coup would like to say
i’ll shove these foodstamps down your throat
just to block your airway
and that’s the fair way ‘cuz everyday
you’re on a moola mission
military killin’ millions ’til you low on ammunition
bodies beyond recognition
twisted complex positions
then their kids work in your factories
and die of malnutrition

see your net profit stats
hold some murderous facts
but if you listen to the news you mighta
heard it was blacks
you got us herded in shacks
i got the pertinent tax
how ’bout the one for when i bust my -ss
and you relax

i’ll hit your head wit an axe
play soccer wit’ your brain
to make it official
slice your jugular vein
still writin’ songs that my momma could sang
and if you feel some yellow drips on your skull
it ain’t rain.

uhhhh!
i wanna p-ss on your grave!
make me feel alright!
yaa yaa yaa!

that b-tch -ss on the front of a buck
never gave a f-ck
he forced his black women slaves
to give him d-ck sucks
and when he bust a nut
he’d laugh and cackle
let the leather whip crackle
send ’em back to pick tobacco
shackled
wouldn’t give ’em nil
so his homies stacked bills
fought on flatland and hill
to keep the british out the till, scrill

kept washington dumpin’ ’em in ditches
so slave owning son of a b-tches
could keep their riches
which is how the war got funded
with two centuries of juice
from black slaves bodies
and the profits they produced
you could deduce
that these men might win
fit right in
and make rights then
just for rich white men

so they quit fightin’
and wrote up a declaration
protective decoration
for their business operations
a gorilla pimpin’ nation, no freedom – just savage
now the whole world’s ravaged
from their hunger for the cabbage

your fifth period history teacher
tellin’ lies like a tweeker
b-mp this song through the speaker
watch they face get weaker
‘less they righteous and they kickin’ the facts
they gon’ smile cuz this sh-t is on wax
one thing i gots to ask

george washington down in h-ll can you see me?
i’m standin’ on your grave
and i’m finsta take a pee-pee!

tour guide: excuse me sir, did you say you have to pee?
boots: nah, i said i love it here in d.c.
tour guide: well, anyway folks, continuing on with the tour.
we’re here at the arlington national cemetary.
behind all of you, right where the gentleman with the afro is standing,
is the grave of of america’s first and greatest hero, our first president —
pants unzipping
george washington
p-ss h-tting the ground
ohh, uh-uhhhh.
cameras click

uhhhh!
i wanna p-ss on your grave!
make me feel alright!
yaa yaa yaa!

knock knock m-th-f-cka, yes once again
i’ll make you pay for your sins
in the trunk o’ your benz
see youse an always fitted
always acquitted
parasitic leech
cain’t be burned off my back
wit’ no fiery speech

your hands is soft as a peach
cuz you ain’t never did work
been rich ever since
your daddy’s d-ck went squirt
have you ever hurt from your back?
ducked from rat-a-tat-tats?
seen your mama on crack?
lived in a pontiac?

drank baby similac
so you could have protein?
(just for enough energy
to hustle up some mo’ green?)

i could paint some mo’ scenes
vergin’ on the obscene
but i’d rather show up at your palace
with a mob scene

i spoke to my accountant
who spoke to my attorney
who counseled my financial advisor
on a gurney

it’s about fifty dollars
and that’s almost like a sale
cuz it costs too d-mn much
to let your rich -ss inhale

true liberation ain’t no word in the head
i’m yellin’ murder ’em dead
for some fish, steak and bread
you pay me 10 g’s a year,
i pay you fifteen million hun’ed?
sorry, you just ain’t in the budget…

uhhhh!
i wanna p-ss on your grave!
make me feel alright!
yaa yaa yaa!

- lirik lagu coup

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