Native Guns — Work It lyrics

Lyrics

I keep my wrists ice cold with the shiniest stones
Fresh picked by some workers in Sierra Leone
Or some Philippino kids that had their future forsworn
12 years old looking like they could be one of my own
That made my fat kicks or my cellular phone
Or the Raider cap fitted on top of my dome
Blood stains right beneath where these stitches were sewn
To keep hidden from the crowd when I’m reading my poems
Hey! Long as I look good, at least my gear is clean
See these ice creams? Look how they match my jeans
Who want a big mac? Who want a taco supreme?
Which Guatemalan family picked them coffee beans?
Broke their back for my broccoli and artichokes?
Became our cheap labor; became our scape goats?
How many? How big? How grandiose?
I want it all and won’t stop until I overdose
Baby work it
Til your hands get sweaty
Baby work it
Til your fingers get bloody
Baby work it
Til your stomach go hungry
Baby work it
Come on get that money honey
Baby work it
Til your hands get sweaty
Baby work it
Til your fingers get bloody
Baby work it
Til your stomach go hungry
Come on baby
Come on get that money honey
Oh yeah
Native Guns go right for your brain
Oh yeah
Native Guns go right for your brain
Oh yeah
Native Guns go right for your brain
Oh yeah
Native Guns go right at your brain
Oh yeah
Native Guns go right for your brain
Oh yeah
Native Guns go right for your brain
Oh yeah
Native Guns go right at your brain
Oh yeah
Native Guns go right at your brain
orific, how terrific; I look at my new Nikes
I mean, look at these (Swoosh) gum bottoms, blue, white
Move right out the store walk like my legs sore
So I don’t scuff the bottoms and the toes don’t get wore
I’m adored by the women; I was swimming in praise
Took me 2 months to get em off of minimum wage
Then I’m like hey (What the hey!?)
Does this stain on the tongue look like cranberry juice, dry blood or something?
Took em off took a closer look flipped up the top
To my surprise there was writing and some more blood spots
It read; «To whom it may concern, my name is Marie. I work in a Nike factory;
age: 13.»
She went on the describe working conditions
The hut she lived in
Her wages point to about a minimum
She wrote like a diary entry like her last
And at the age of 18 she’ll be learning to dance
For dirty Japanese business men money for the family
The text on the sneaker started attacking the man in me
I cried shedding tear drops; soaked my shoes
And the glue came unglued and my feet broke loose
And i was (Gone)
I was running I was (Gone)
And I was (Gone)
I was gone I was (Gone)
And then I yelled
They got the nerve to call us criminals, but they’re the ones that get away
With paying my little cousin only 30 cents a day
To make Jeans and shoes and cellular phones
Then they sell em back here for like 70 bones
It’s like my cousin is the closest thing to a slave
What’s ironic is that I’m rocking all the things that he made
I got shoes from Nike, slacks from GAP
With a «Made in the Philippines» tag on the back
With a jacket to match
Cafe Latte, non-fat
Louis Vuitton knapsack slung tight on my back
In the back of the bus off to get my piece of the pie
Check to check is how i survive; 9 to 5
To buy myself the newest piece of gear to hit the street
Freshly made by those trying to survive like me
But unlike me, they how unimportant it is
To have nice shit if I can’t even feed my kids
Baby work it
Til your hands get sweaty
Baby work it
Til your fingers get bloody
Baby work it
Til your stomach go hungry
Baby work it
Come on get that money honey
Baby work it
Til your hands get sweaty
Baby work it
Til your fingers get bloody
Baby work it
Til your stomach go hungry
Come on baby
Come on get that money honey