Lyrics
Bam blllaah
Let me get that out the way first
I’m trying to grab your focus by the eighth bar of the first verse
My son said, «Dad, you mad?»
I said, «Yeah, son, I’m fucking pissed
Cause I just read some shit about a murdered kid who coulda been a kid
You mighta went to school with
Might’ve made some moves with
Might’ve been a fan of daddy’s music, now some bullshit
Went and put a bullet in 'em, but worse than how they did 'em
I’m pissed cause that little kid coulda been you, and God help 'em
God forbid some shit should happen, it’d be worse than cartel beef
Crazy southeast Asian kids with rockets firin' down your street
But nah it’s beasts among us
We don’t need Jesus or brothers
We need Mom and Dad and those who’s supposed to love us
To love us, while the system try an' fuck us
Brown people out of justice
Cause a free market economy, money, Mayweather duck us
Melanin in the mixture, uplift my brothers and sisters
Students, workers, and teachers, gangbangers and guerrillas
I got you wishin'
Wishin' you were brown
I got you wishin'
You were a darker shade of brown
Now you feel me when I do these introductions, I go English first
And then I’m going in as best I can and flip that second verse
In Tagalog dapat naman pero napuputol ang salita ko
Bumalik ako sa Pinas in 2012 walang pinagbago
Ang dami nang gusali tinataas ang Makati
Pag dumame ang corporacion maghihirap ang ma dadale
Pare grabe talaga ang ginawa ni GMA
Pinag bili ang ating lupa walang hiya right in our face
So pag tumama ang ambon sa bansa ko guha lupa
(Para ka talagang politician huh) pero may utak
Mula sa ugat, from the struggle, since my mom pushed
Smog City’s own, first chapter of the last book
Same face kissed by Cecilia back in the third grade
Same face that cried when she was murdered in the sixth grade
That anti-glorifying of a life that took her life
Dark truth so when you’re wishing you were me, you think twice
Wishin' you were brown x3
I will never say that progress is being made
If you stick a knife in my back nine inches and pull it out six inches,
there’s no progress
You pull it all the way out, that’s not progress
The progress is healing the wound that the blow made
And they haven’t even begun to pull the knife out, much less try to heal the
wound
They won’t even admit the knife is there
One rifle per family