[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