more from
Mello Music Group

Bottom Feeders (feat. Fashawn / prod. Exile)

from by Chris Orrick

/

lyrics

The bottom feeder, God believers
Can't foresee winning, but quitting isn't an option either
We spit the mantra that Nas delivered the ROC on "Ether"
I. WILL. NOT. LOSE.
Sick grin while I sip gin from a goblet, see your
Holy Grail runneth over with what I've been bleeding
Poison melody, aim and poise steadily
Pedigree of the Kennedys; bad luck and destiny
See the peasantry seek hope in serenity
Find heaven in chemistry, unplanned pregnancy
Minds caught in zealotry, unlimited weaponry
Lower than leprosy, star struck by celebrity
No longevity, no story or legacy
Erase the future with death the only penalty
No identity, trapped in the hegemony
Turn neighbors to enemies, repeat the elegy

And we got nothing
Waiting on our meal ticket like, fuck it
Till the day we die, our shoulders holding up that sky
And we don't budge and we don't flinch
And we don't shrug, not a single inch
Till the day we die
Our shoulders holding up that sky
They acting like they got the world on their shoulders
Looking at us like we're earners or soldiers
Fill up their banks or go fill up their tanks
Greed, money and death they instill in their ranks
But soon enough their little "burden" is over
People are learning slow, their co-word isn't covert
Not hard to decipher, not murdering Dozers
People are waking up the birds and the Folgers
Highly classified and preserved in a folder
Only to be exposed when the world's turning over
Seems like the world's doing homework
The rich have spent a hundred years digging their own dirt
And we're almost to six feet, critical mass
Pitiful let's pickle the pigs feet
Feet to the fire so the fire can burn
The water's dirty, we fight fire with fire returned


And we got nothing
Waiting on our meal ticket like, fuck it
Till the day we die, our shoulders holding up that sky
And we don't budge and we don't flinch
And we don't shrug, not a single inch
Till the day we die
Our shoulders holding up that sky

Fashawn:
Are you seriously surprised by the poverty?
By default, survivors we gotta be
Fuck classism we defy the propriety
Use hierarchy to divide the society
Like instead of property we get pollyseeds
School of hard-knocks, while they get Ivy League
We get commissary, they get college fees
So logically I went on a robbing spree
Obviously, I was jacking for freedom
Acting a heathen, trapped in a mentality
That was backwards, the reason
Instead of leaving the neighborhood
We thought we owned, but was only leasing
I would grow to believe in:
Not waiting on a mule or no acres
No patience for liberations, reparations, a better nation
Truthfully it's a struggle but I admit I'm
Accustomed to my condition, suffering from tradition
Still...


And we got nothing
Waiting on our meal ticket like, fuck it
Till the day we die, our shoulders holding up that sky
And we don't budge and we don't flinch
And we don't shrug, not a single inch
Till the day we die
Our shoulders holding up that sky

credits

from Portraits, released May 4, 2018

license

all rights reserved

tags

about

Chris Orrick Detroit, Michigan

Chris Orrick is the patron saint of a poisoned world. The blue-collar MC writes spiteful chants for the permanently scarred, death letters for the forgotten, surly hymns for charcoal lungs. Think Bukowski on an eloquent bender, swapping wine for whiskey, a notepad for a glowing LED screen, the race track for the recording booth. These are anthems for the irate, over-educated and under-valued. ... more

contact / help

Contact Chris Orrick

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

If you like Chris Orrick, you may also like: