Pocket Full Of Slave Owners

[Verse One: Muja Messiah] Pocket full of slave owners Money is the sweetest hangover Baking soda gang culture I told you I was a soldier Told you I was crazy Ayatollah Khomeini, on the iPhone Israeli's Leatherneck warfare, I survived the 80's Little red corvette, parked outside of Pasley Southside baby, money got me acting shady Like, "Fuck you pay me." I'm going out like Dick Cheney Secondary most necessary Most definitely Couple G's on me bringing out the devil in me I need that bread like I need a hole in my head Better off rich, nah bitch I'm better off dead Keeping me alive at the same time high as a fucking kite Catch 22 hindsight, been chasing it all my life Short days, long nights Nine bucks for an hour, fuck that we on strike [Hook: Muja Messiah] Say what, say what? Every day's another day closer One pay cut from turning to a chain smoker Bank account bankrupt, corrupt bank owners Waging war on the poor and low wage workers Say what, say what? Money is the sweetest hangover Straight up, straight up Ain't no way in Hell I can stay sober Laughing all the way to the bank on 'em Ha ha ha ha I got a pocket full of slave owners You ain't never lie Pocket full of slave owners You ain't never lie Pocket full of slave owners You ain't never lie Pocket full of slave owners You ain't never, never I got a pocket full of slave owners [Verse Two: Brother Ali] How you're not living a walking contradiction Same when you're still in the whip when Willy lynch 'em? Kill him for resisting in a Jim Crow system Then tell 'em you're free to go and make a living Player with no stairs, no more gold shillings Just slips of paper with numbers and some scribbling Hand full of cash is your brand new privilege Look down and see the O.G. villains ice grilling Same for the pictures in religion if ya Christian Even if you switch you'll still be imprinted Admit it, Jewish brothers might feel a little funny If somebody put Nazi's on the money And I ain't being funny I just want you to think about your country All cash contains cotton and it's bloody Ugly Don't matter how you feel about it If you doubt it just go and try to feed ya kids without it The guy who's left side appears on the five Died when he gave slavery a disguise No more bondage except They convict you of a crime then it's back to the depths Prison industrial complex Where they don't say you're slaves But they're paid from your sweat And if ya need proof that it's the same old shit They take your slave owners and they'll cut your ass a check [Verse Three: Boots Riley] We sacrificial, pack a pistol for a stack of tissue Gas the rental, crack the window Blappa blappa blappa up in this Splatter stencils, cataclysmal Writers need the faster pencil Wack officials, backing missiles, wire scratchin' Just don't let the Cadillac convince you Cause a Mac will never miss you The track will never lift you This battle rap will kiss you Tell me is it crack or crystal? What demographic is you? (?Chill act will yank the?) ripple while the teeth chatter triple Jump before the cattle's whistle He 'bout the max placental They 'bout to fact you gental Cheese like Sacramento The class clash continue the apparatus is you Make gas sniff in your ring and I'll like aporetic venue Still gon' be a status issue Unless you make the mass come with you That's essential and it's central Throwing up a hammer sickle Pocket full of slave owners holding back potential Head turners like Ted trying to build on that credentials [Hook] [Verse Four: Muja Messiah] White faces in my pocket Eyes stay green from them fiends who ain't got it Chain gang bling, nothing for you got a profit Anything to cop it, got cops inside my optics I ain't seen the sun cause I'm been watch from the projects Money got a hold on me homie like a harness Or should I say a noose, oops I'm just being honest They ain't paid me dollars since slavery was abolished No arms for the poor, pulling arms out the socket World War Four, financial crisis out of pocket Full of slave owners Breaking laws, hostile take over Police line do not cross, yellow tape the corner All for the love of the dollar bill Corporate thugs fighting over drugs in the cotton fields Washington, Jefferson Franklin, they bogus We don't call 'em dead presidents we call 'em slave owners