I'm gonna piss on yo' grave!
Make me feel alright!
Yeah, yeah, yeow!

While you was eatin' t-bone steaks
in palatial estates
ornate with gates that automate
so those who hate can only spectate
I was kissin' my mate, through iron grates while the guards wait
fifty cent rate for makin' license plates
My papermate pen shake
vibrate from 808 quakes
over breaks, dug outta crates
that sag from weight of the vinyl plates
girls work 'til they back ache and they breast can't lactate
ya laughin' to the bank, similn' showin' all your plaque flakes

Contesting, contesting, one, two, three
never shoulda been put in the penitentiary
Boots from the Coup would like to say
I'll shove these food-stamps down your throat just to block the airway
and that's the fair way
"cause everyday your on the moola mission
military killin' millions 'til your low on ammunition
Bodies beyond recognition, twisted complex positions
then they kids work in your factories and die of malnutrition

See your net profit stats, hold some murderous facts
But if ya listen to the news you mighta heard it was blacks
You got us herdin' in shacks
I got the pertinent tax
How 'bout the one for when I bust my ass and you relax
I hit your head with an axe
Play soccer wit' your brain
To make it official, slice your jugular vein

Still writin' songs that my momma can sang
and if you feel some yellow drips on your skull it ain't rain

I'm gonna piss on yo' grave!
Make me feel alright!
Yeah, yeah, yeow!

That bitch ass on the front of a buck
he never gave a fuck
He force his black women slaves to give him dick sucks
And when he busta nut, he laugh and cackle
let the leather whip crackle send 'em back to pick tobacco, shackled
Wouldn't give 'em nil, so his homies stacked bills
fought on flatland and hill, to keep the British out the till
Scrill, that Washington, dumpin' 'em in ditches
So slave owning son-of-a-bitches could keep they riches
Which is how the war got funded
with two centuries of juice
Our black slave bodies and the profits they produce

You could deduce that these men might win, fit right in
and make rights then just for rich white men
so they quit fightin'
and wrote up a declaration
protective decoration for they business operations
a guerilla pimpin' nation
no freedom just savage
The whole world's ravaged for they hunger for the cabbage

Your fifth period history teacher tellin' lies like a tweaker
bump this song through the speaker
watch they face get weaker
'less they righteous and the kickin' the facts
they goin' smile 'cause this shit is on wax
One thing I gotts to ask George Washington
down in hell, can you see me?
'Cause I'm standin' on your grave and I finsta take a pee pee

[Tour guide]: Excuse me sir, did you say you have to pee?
[Boots]: Nah, I said I love it here in D.C.
[Tour guide]: Well, anyway folks, continuing on with the tour.
We're here at the Arlington National Cemetary.
Behind all of you, right where the gentleman with the afro is standing,
is the grave of of America's first and greatest hero, our first president --
[Pants unzipping]
George Washington
[Piss hitting the ground]
Ohh, uh-uhhhh.
[Cameras click]

I'm gonna piss on yo' grave!
Make me feel alright!
Yeah, yeah, yeow!

Knock, knock motherfucker, yes once again
I'll make ya pay for your sins in the trunk of ya benz
sees youz an always fitted, always acquitted, parasitic leach
can't be burned off my back wit' no fiery speech
Your hands is soft as a peach
'cause you ain't never did work
Been rich ever since your daddy's dick went squirt
Have you ever hurt from your back?
Ducked from ratta-tat-tats?
Seen your momma on crack?
Lived in a Pontiac?
Drink baby Similac so you could have protein?
(just for enough energy to hustle up some mo' green?)
I could paint some mo' scenes
vergin' on the obscene
But I'd rather show up at the palace with a mob scene

I spoke with my accountant
who spoke to my attorney
who counseled my financial advisor on a gurney
It's about fifty dollars and that's almost like a sale
'cause it costs to damn much to let your rich ass inhale

True liberation ain't no word in the head
I'm yellin' murder 'em dead for some fish, steak, and bread
You pay me ten Gs a year I pay you fifty million hun'ed
Sorry you just ain't in the budget
look at the birdy now

I'm gonna piss on yo' grave!
Make me feel alright!
Yeah, yeah, yeow!
I'm gonna piss on yo' grave!
Make me feel alright!
Yeah, yeah, yeow!

Lyrics submitted by robburns

Piss On Your Grave song meanings
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