Being here in America doesn't make you an American
Being born here in America doesn't make you an American
I see America through the eyes of the victim
I don't see any American dream, I see an American nightmare
Power to the people
We got more crack in the ghetto than they could grow in Columbia
Put this shit right in front of ya, this is America!
We got more guns in the hood than soldiers out on the line
See hustlers out on they grind, how you get rich in America
And we all just tryin' to make it, all around the world
For those who never mistake it, ain't no place like America
And your pride get hard to swallow when everything controlled
By that all mighty dollar, we don't fear God in America
[Verse 1: Boaz]
Okay the sun rise from the east, the west marked by the beast
The crime rate in my city still risin' like yeast
My young homie said, "Fuck school" and hit the block
I try to tell him, "Be thankful for the shit you got"
Cause ain't nobody gon' do nothin' for you
They gave the ghetto dope to hang ourselves then kick the bucket for you
Still throwin' rocks at the pen, full of dope spot
My homie just got out and locked up again
Cause ain't no discipline (Not at all)
Speakin' frankly, it's all about the Benjamins
More chiefs than Indians
That's why I just be playin' my part (my part), keep doin' my thing thing
My phone like a telethon, it always go ring ring
My hands cash registered, they always go ching ching
Call me Joe Blow, cause I'm smokin' that mean green
Gotta stay high to deal with all these characters
Cash rules everything all over America
[Verse 2: Schoolboy Q]
Na nigga, we tryin' to ball nigga
Bullets ejecting enter give him a hot winter
From a nobody nigga to top-tener
To bitches givin' head just hopin' that I remember
Obama lied, ain't see shit changed
The cocaine came, with no shame, we does our thing
My gang go bang, his blog be the same, her block be the same
I just might get rid of that range and cop me a plane
I'm ghetto fabulous, not corporate but nigga rich
Jesus Christ can't believe this shit
The pistol on me make me feel grave
Ya man murked could make you feel hate
A murder squad get the ?
God couldn't help me with the bills I pay
So I'm stealin' the collection plate
Prayed to him, guess he answered late
On my knees just tired of tryin' to get his attention
So fuck it, I'm back to bitchin'
[Verse 3: Boaz]
Everybody on welfare, nobody got healthcare
War goin' on right here, the president well aware
Come through your city, but won't visit the ghetto there
We in our own world from California to Delaware
The black market, yeah the hood be arrangin'
How the prices be inflatin' all the goods we exchangin'
To be doctor was my earlier plan
Til experience let me know I had the world in my hand
Now I got so many girls in my pants
Don't know if they reachin' for me, or the Jacksons and grams
I see my fans, they all happen to ask
Young Bo, when you gon' put the game back in the trance?
I'm like, "I'm on it, I'm on it"
You see how I be doin' it
I feel it then I record it, sound the same when I'm performing
To tell the truth, the crack game was never boring
Bet they'll be the best memories we talk about tourin'
Edit song description to add:
- Historical context: what album the song's on, how popular it was
- An explanation of the song's overall story (example: "In this song, Eminem corresponds with a crazed fan who ends up...")
- The sample used for the beat — use WhoSampled.com and wikipedia as references