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Letter to the Editor
Pocket full a promises
Baby empty bellies
Poverty and Democracies
And political rallies
But who the rich a lobby for
Using me for votes
Pretend a mi yuh sorry for
Then win and its a joke
I'm sick of trick or treaters in costumes like dem as leaders
Charismatic public speakers
False prophets and fake healers
Articulate perfect grammar scammer
Scamming us for votes
Infront of tv camera with an innocent approach
Nuh mo lies and fallacies
Bun apologies
Try nuh ask please when a squeeze and yuh pan yuh knees
Justice or else says the minister Farakhan
Suh me stand up a Gordon house
Wid my Glock Inna me hand
If I take it literally
F**k it geez I'm kinda sorry
But smaddy need Fi answer
Gimmi Di microphone and Mek mi rep di innocent paying recompense for money spent to feed the governments
Yo
Gimmi Di microphone get the people riled up too much f**kery Piled up get di ting dem oiled up
Parallel universes in the same Ol' hemisphere
Authorities they don't care with dem nose up in the air
Cause our bombs dem metaphoric
We talk Di truth and mek Di youths dem better for it
Cause I'm a fighter
Yeah
If you agree put up yuh lighter
Yeah
Mek the stench from ghetto fences permeate dem residences extend up through the trenches up to where the presidents is
Karma pan Di ones and twos yes it turn the tables
Had enough a you with your parable and fables
Jamaican bad gal queen and revolutionary
Neva quick Fi start a war but shoot whenever necessary
Product of the inner city
Where me come from it nuh pretty
Survive the nitty gritty
Ain't nobody taking pity
Survival kinda sticky
In New York Cali and philly
A di same ting a gwaan in a Kingston
Cause our bombs dem metaphoric
We talk Di truth and mek Di youths dem better for it
Cause I'm a fighter
Yeah
If you agree put up yuh lighter
Yeah
These are the da days of the last days
Pan the last page of Di book of the dark age
We a path ways wid oppressors
Seek Predecessors
Wake up ancestors
Den we team up together
We will meet we will meet pan Di battle Di battle ground
Trade mi microphone
For a shottie and some copper stones
Just be ready When Di gavel sound
Bun a folly ground fus
Jah surround us
So We never nervous
Was a mental war now this s**t turn physical
From long time scar we a reap the residual
From slavery to now
Now the ting get critical
Dem CyAh kill we soul cause dem sight sey we spiritual
So They be like
Hey
Prod the bull under Sykes as subliminal
Get them mad
Then chastise dem as criminal
Give wi d**gs under guise sey it clinical