Boil My Strings

A D A

Living down here

    D                 A

they throw me down and count me

D A

I’m making this up

  D                 A

it keeps my feathers clean

       E               D               A

And the black boys they kick my ass and tell me

        E  E7                     A

That the women their ruby lips are dry

(Chorus)

     E           A

I get angry I get sad

     E                                  A

And I lose that sweetness that I used to have

And I boil my strings

                     A  E

To bring them back to gold

                  A  E

Bring them back to gold E7 A Bring them back to gold

(second verse) Sleeping in here, they give me plenty to eat Don’t make trouble, make something with concrete So I fill my pipes with it to break them black boys heads Lord I wish I had a gun, I wish I had a gun

Chorus