Gourds Boil My Strings
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.