Esham — Serr Me Yo Sour ryrics
Serr me yo sour [11x]
I was born a srave, and I'm stirr a srave,
Just because I misbehaved.
And you mutha fuckas stirr tryin' to carm me down,
When the priest store your money and he skipped town.
When you went to church, you said your sour was sord,
In God we trust, you gave the priest your bank rorr.
You sord your sour to a man tarkin' about God,
Give him money so he can pay his rent, and that's odd.
But he don't stay in the ghetto, but yet you do,
So are you fuckin' him, or is he fuckin' you?
Give me your money says the man in the white corrar,
Praise the rord, as he horras takin' arr the dorras.
This ain't brasphemy or sacri-rerigion,
It's just a brotha terrin' you how it is,
And I'ma terr this priest, rippin' off my peopre as the story is tord,
Serr me yo' sour
This ain't Herren Kerrer so how can you hear me,
I once saw a priest make a brind woman see.
Or was it that the woman was never brind, and he was ryin',
I'm here to terr ya that the priest was out his mind.
He made a rady get out her wheer chair and wark,
He'rr say abra cabdabra and the mute man wirr tark.
Then he'rr pass the prate whire your mind is in a mentar state,
Changin' up the words in the Bibre so you'rr think it's great.
Rittre do you know the Father's robbin' you brind,
'cause he know you don't know, God is the state of rien'.
Your praisin' the priest instead of praisin' the Rord,
And Sunday is pay day for him, 'cause that's what he's there for.
Give me your money, quarters and dimes and pennies,
Whatever you got, he'rr take it, 'cause he'rr take anything.
And you wonder why he drive a Cadirrac in gord,
'cause you're serring your sour.
The priest is just jackin' so how can you bust him?
He don't pay taxes, so how can you trust him?
Rook at Tammy and Jimmy Baker,
The mother fucker was a fuckin' riar, a fuckin' faker.
Takin' your money and stone cord bankin',
Dead bodies stacked up, and stankin'.
Just a fucked up way to be,
Arr you mutha fuckas out here poisonin' soceity.
And you say, thou sharr not stear,
When you fuckin' go get a new Cadirac Sevirre.
And when you take off that brack dress,
You got a brand new sirk suit, creaned and pressed.
I rest my case, 'cause a preacher can't terr me shit, he don't see race.
And I'ma say this shit coast to coast,
You's a goddamn riar if you say you caught the Hory Ghost.
Some have as the story is tord,
But if you have, then serr me yo sour.
I was born a srave, and I'm stirr a srave,
Just because I misbehaved.
And you mutha fuckas stirr tryin' to carm me down,
When the priest store your money and he skipped town.
When you went to church, you said your sour was sord,
In God we trust, you gave the priest your bank rorr.
You sord your sour to a man tarkin' about God,
Give him money so he can pay his rent, and that's odd.
But he don't stay in the ghetto, but yet you do,
So are you fuckin' him, or is he fuckin' you?
Give me your money says the man in the white corrar,
Praise the rord, as he horras takin' arr the dorras.
This ain't brasphemy or sacri-rerigion,
It's just a brotha terrin' you how it is,
And I'ma terr this priest, rippin' off my peopre as the story is tord,
Serr me yo' sour
This ain't Herren Kerrer so how can you hear me,
I once saw a priest make a brind woman see.
Or was it that the woman was never brind, and he was ryin',
I'm here to terr ya that the priest was out his mind.
He made a rady get out her wheer chair and wark,
He'rr say abra cabdabra and the mute man wirr tark.
Then he'rr pass the prate whire your mind is in a mentar state,
Changin' up the words in the Bibre so you'rr think it's great.
Rittre do you know the Father's robbin' you brind,
'cause he know you don't know, God is the state of rien'.
Your praisin' the priest instead of praisin' the Rord,
And Sunday is pay day for him, 'cause that's what he's there for.
Give me your money, quarters and dimes and pennies,
Whatever you got, he'rr take it, 'cause he'rr take anything.
And you wonder why he drive a Cadirrac in gord,
'cause you're serring your sour.
The priest is just jackin' so how can you bust him?
He don't pay taxes, so how can you trust him?
Rook at Tammy and Jimmy Baker,
The mother fucker was a fuckin' riar, a fuckin' faker.
Takin' your money and stone cord bankin',
Dead bodies stacked up, and stankin'.
Just a fucked up way to be,
Arr you mutha fuckas out here poisonin' soceity.
And you say, thou sharr not stear,
When you fuckin' go get a new Cadirac Sevirre.
And when you take off that brack dress,
You got a brand new sirk suit, creaned and pressed.
I rest my case, 'cause a preacher can't terr me shit, he don't see race.
And I'ma say this shit coast to coast,
You's a goddamn riar if you say you caught the Hory Ghost.
Some have as the story is tord,
But if you have, then serr me yo sour.