Super Chron Flight Brothers - Bob Hope [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

[Hook: Privilege]
I’m sitting in my seat, pondering all these sources, spinning
Through my head, trying to make the right decision
Not winning yet, not yet
Getting it like I’m trying to be having it
Cut life like the proverbial “it,” you take a stab at ‘em

[Verse 1: Privilege]
Serrated side slicing cheeseburger bison
For meat that tender they murdered old man Tyson
Met the Mrs, mangled her muff, mashed her hymen
Strung intestines on their shoulder as they claim artistic license
Martyrs silence taking place (shhhh...)
Spark flies, deceit and rage
They walk away with the guns of their kids like we don’t play
I see potential I.E.Ds all around me
Sons you’ll see the barrel of this gun 'til I see safety
And if I have to bust your face it’s fuck your face
I do what my C.O. says, forget Dead Prez
My boss is the real one
You got bars and mics I’m holding stars and stripes
Around your neck, ‘til you’re seeing lights
At the end of tunnels, colored white
Another wasted night, another temple's thieved
Some more lambs bread, a log's bottom leaf, I said

[Hook: Privilege]

[Billy Woods]
And let me assure you parishioners that today is indeed a difficult day to be your pastor, as we observe the funeral of yet another of our community’s black men
And on a day like today one is tempted to ask, “Where was God? Where is hope?”
Well brother Whetstone, I assure you you will not find hope in the g-string of your favorite stripper at the penthouse club at 2311 Georgia Avenue
Sister Wear, I assure you hope will not come on immediately following the Young & The Restless on Thursday mornings
[Watching that bullshit!]
And brother Mercy, I see you in the back there; hope is not something you are gonna find at the bottom of that 22 ounce bottle of malt liquor beer
And as for you brother Woods, I assure you try as you might, you will never balance hope on your triple beam scale

[Verse 2: Billy Woods]
She ain’t returning calls, I think I’m getting boomerang
I ain’t stupid dog but it ain’t hit me ‘til the gavel rang (bang bang!)
Slip up and be behind those walls
Continents of dirt and grime, put in work like Kalashnikov
Crime and Punishment, I took it as a job
Raskolnikov put through the time
You could say he dropped a dime
Or better yet a laundry load of change
Suit and tie secured, I only need one juror
But I can feel those flames, smell that brimstone
I don’t think I can beat this on appeal homes
Prisoner of war, law popped, four dicks, Levenworth, ain’t my type of tour
Habeas corpus was 300 bars, no chorus
So many trees a nigga couldn't see the forest
A lot of fingers is crossed for us holding weight enormous
Like ‘Who you telling?’
The bag ain’t open but yeah that’s what you smelling
Rappers gobbling watermelon
Like that’s a new jump off
A fistful of dollars, ain't no telling hoss
Ain’t that the damn truth
No time to bullshit in that damn booth
Can you blame me?
The girl was so damn cute
And a fan of the Overproof
Wray and Nephew, we don’t need no water
They got me on tape, I don’t need no lawyer
And I don’t even fucking care who spilled those goyas
We had these blocks like Dikembe and Alonzo on the Hoyas
And still ain’t get the title
Spit on my palm, hand on the Bible
I solemnly swear to see you all in Hell
Took the L in alphabet city:
FBI, DEA, NYPD, DOC, get me?