Оригинален текст
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 as* 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.