[Verse 1: Spice-1]
Stepping up out of my cell with sandals and county blues
Handcuffs and shackles, finna ride up on that grey goose
Caught another case 'cause I was strapped with my .9
And see these drawers that I'm wearing?
Motherfuckers ain't mine, n***a
Excuse me, homie, can I hit that, mista?
N***as rollin' up indo outta toilet tissue, huh
Ain't this a bitch? Some n***as is scared to hit it
Fool, I'm with it
So phone check, n***a, get the fuck off the line
Before I stick your ass in here and have to do some more time, player
Wanna give me the strap 'cause I was strapped with a Glock
I guess I got to sit my Black ass right there and get shot, see
But fool, it ain't no goin' out, see, I keep storin' clout
And show these n***as what I'm all about
See n***as screaming from cell to cell
Snitches don't tell, a party in hell at Santa Rita county jail

[Verse 2: E-Roc]
Every time I turn around, every time I look
I'm considered to be a murderer, a crook
Ali shook the world, I'm gon' shake my homie's hand
Three in the morning, dressed in blue once again
My size ten rest upon the concrete floor
Heads bob real slow to a freestyle flow
I don't know this master plan, can't understand
Why there's more Black folks in jail than Japanese in Japan
But uh, my eyes pink, sitting up on that bunk
Thinking about them tickets, choking up on that funk, chump
Withdraw a Snicker from my commissary bank
Sunday, Monday came, fool, I'm out this holding tank
But it makes me think the system treating us like a merry-go-round
One day you're chilling at home, the next, you headed downtown
Peace to my hounds in the county in the pen
Once again, it's a Santa Rita weekend
[Chorus]
Just sitting up on the top bunk
Watching the cell block row
Just sitting up on the top bunk
Watching the cell block row

[Verse 3: E-40]
Seven zero seven case motherfucking number two eleven
Stressin', manifestin', tore up from the floor
Penelopes got me on the floor
Accused of robbing a store
Who do you know, n***a? Naybody
Besides-ory, I refuse to answer any questions
Without the advisory of my lawyer Mr. Baker
Pervin' off this boilermaker
Let me go, po-po, I'm innocent
Mistaken, right? Suppose all Blacks look alike
Thank you kindly, sir
You need to practice your professional better
Never run up on me again
Bust a pattern, be off into the wind
Back up off me, biatch, huh
Just the other day, my crony shot me a kite
"E-40, baby boy, you becomin' hella tight"
Claybank, Vacaville, then up there by Reno
Rita, Quentin, Folsom, Chino
[Chorus]
Just sitting up on the top bunk
Watching the cell block row

[Interlude: Boots Riley]
Nah man, I didn't want the chorus right here
I wanted to throw that breakdown in, you know, that bassline
Yeah, oh yeah

[Verse 4: Boots Riley]
It's like yayo, mail, weights and scales
It don't mean shit when you're sitting in the county jail
Is it my turn to tell the tale of how I got popped
And how my lawyer finna get me out on the spot?
Slide the cell block, my homies give me love
Some here for having gats, some here for selling drugs
Sometimes you do your shit and ain't no second tries
Look around, there's hella motherfuckers that I recognize
"Oh, what's up, man? I'm back again"
But it's a temporary situation, taking weekend vacations
Government incarceration
I call myself working on a pay hike
They calling me working on my third strike
Psych, I can't go forward
And motherfuckers can't ignore it
'Cause all my peoples on parole, in the pen or got a warrant
So it's some shit I done leaped in
Damn, another Santa Rita weekend
[Chorus]
Just sitting up on the top bunk
Watching the cell block row
Just sitting up on the top bunk
Watching the cell block row