Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Mr. President, artist - Bushwick Bill.
Date of issue: 10.07.1995
Song language: English
Mr. President |
Yes |
We’re here to talk about those who |
Are considered to be an elected official |
Who said it was official that when they was elected |
That everything that they dealt with had me in mind |
As a human being, as a man |
But not as a slave or three fifths human |
I have the right to bear arms |
What makes you think I respect you? |
Hello Mr. President, residents of the White House, excuse me |
I’d like to know, have you ever enjoyed an old-time gangster movie? |
With the white man ringin shots on blocks |
With their clean shave and pin strip-suits |
Bootleggin-whiskey-rapin-black-women-and-havin-a-fat-stack-of-loot |
Undercover David Duke, isn’t it true |
The gangster movement started long before my time |
Long before the hair rag, gangster sag |
Finger signs and love for nines? |
Damn, in your minds and in your hearts |
Is the hate really that deep, what’s truly goin on? |
Knockin me for the words I write |
For writin movie scripts by whites like Mr. Al Capone |
Yeah |
America |
A land that made Christopher Columbus |
A historian for bringing madmen, white slaves, and rapists |
Kennedy, his dad was a bootlegger for Al Capone |
Became President |
Isn’t it evident |
That those who sit in the residence |
Are not president? |
Now why you wanna try to knock me |
Cause I’m black, got a gat |
Twist my hat and all, listen to Mr. Scarface |
Think about the way the government wants to hold us back |
As a matter of fact |
I believe the whole system is a huge crime scene |
And everyday they’re doin the dirty work |
And layin it on us niggas, if you know what I mean |
So don’t corrupt your own minds foolin yourself |
Tryin to lay it on the black man |
I’m a young gee tryin to leave poverty |
With a gat in my black hand |
So white heathen, taken straight out of |
The crate of a mouth of a babe |
Yeah, a honkey can’t stop what a honkey started |
And the ghetto’s what you honkeys made |
That’s right, sittin up there in the White House |
With your homosexual mentalities and female persuasions |
Yeah, I’m talkin to all the J. Edgar Hoovers |
That are still left in there |
All the big brothers that are watching |
I hope you’re listenin |
Cause the bad shit you put on criminals has made the citizens take control |
Now Sergeant hit ya, get with ya |
Let’s get back to the issue, continue dissin |
My way of livin, so a little nigga like me |
Gots to go and dish ya this mission |
Hopin that the message that I’m sendin |
Gets through to you and your people |
Devil, look at your own dirty past |
Before you come to me with your blue-eyed evil |
If I kill 30 innocent, would you write |
A movie about me and spare |
My life, or would you lock me up with triple life |
And strap me down in the electric chair? |
See, it’s not about the sign I throw up |
Or where I roam, or what a nigga wear |
See cracker, it’s all about respect for your hood |
Your clique, and all of those whose pain with you share |
That’s right, pain |
The pain that I feel |
Is the pain from shame |
The shame that you’ve caused me |
For over 400 years of protection |
The pain that I have within me |
The rage that is flaming |
Makes me wanna say the things that I say |
Do the things that I do |
And let you know |
That when you look at me |
Or look down at me |
Or look across from your side of the world to my side |
That what you have failed to realize |
Is that you’ve put me in projects |
I realize it was an experiment |
So when you put me in jail |
I realize I just made it through the millions |
I’m just another rat that made my cheese |
And you couldn’t stand it |
But what can all the big cats do |
When all the rats wanna get fat |
But try to cut down on the cheese |
What you don’t realize is that you’re jerkin yourself |
Killin your own existence |
You’re all walking dead men, and don’t know it |
With book sense and street sense |
If you had street intelligence |
You would really know |
That you’re one footstep between life and death |
That the mouth is a open grave |
And you’ve offered me the right to elect you to a bullet |
Which is a straight shot to the top, right? |
And what goes up must come down |
That’s why it’s goin down right now |
You can smell the smoke |
See the flames |
And see the bodies that are left on the ground |
Because the flag |
Red, white and blue |
And the stars from all the years you’ve whupped me and mines |
I still see |