| I was born a slave, and I’m still a slave
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| Just because I misbehaved
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| And you mutha fuckas still tryin' to calm me down
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| When the priest stole your money and he skipped town
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| When you went to church, you said your soul was sold
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| In God we trust, you gave the priest your bank roll
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| You sold your soul to a man talkin' about God
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| Give him money so he can pay his rent, and that’s odd
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| But he don’t stay in the ghetto, but yet you do
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| So are you fuckin' him, or is he fuckin' you?
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| Give me your money says the man in the white collar
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| Praise the lord, as he hollas takin' all the dollas
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| This ain’t blasphemy or sacri-religion
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| It’s just a brotha tellin' you how it is
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| And I’ma tell this priest, rippin' off my people as the story is told
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| Sell me yo' soul
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| This ain’t Hellen Keller so how can you hear me
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| I once saw a priest make a blind woman see
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| Or was it that the woman was never blind, and he was lyin'
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| I’m here to tell ya that the priest was out his mind
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| He made a lady get out her wheel chair and walk
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| He’ll say abra cabdabra and the mute man will talk
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| Then he’ll pass the plate while your mind is in a mental state
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| Changin' up the words in the Bible so you’ll think it’s great
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| Little do you know the Father’s robbin' you blind
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| Cuz he know you don’t know, God is the state of lien'
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| Your praisin' the priest instead of praisin' the Lord
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| And Sunday is pay day for him, cuz that’s what he’s there for
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| Give me your money, quarters and dimes and pennies
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| Whatever you got, he’ll take it, cuz he’ll take anything
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| And you wonder why he drive a Cadillac in gold
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| Cuz you’re selling your soul
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| The priest is just jackin' so how can you bust him?
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| He don’t pay taxes, so how can you trust him?
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| Look at Tammy and Jimmy Baker
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| The mother fucker was a fuckin' liar, a fuckin' faker
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| Takin' your money and stone cold bankin'
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| Dead bodies stacked up, and stankin'
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| Just a fucked up way to be
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| All you mutha fuckas out here poisonin' soceity
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| And you say, thou shall not steal
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| When you fuckin' go get a new Cadilac Seville
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| And when you take off that black dress
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| You got a brand new silk suit, cleaned and pressed
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| I rest my case, cuz a preacher can’t tell me shit, he don’t see race
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| And I’ma say this shit coast to coast
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| You’s a goddamn liar if you say you caught the Holy Ghost
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| Some have as the story is told
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| But if you have, then sell me yo soul |