You know sometimes I sit
at home, you know,
and I watch T.V. and I wonder
what it would be like
to live someplace like, you
know, the Cosby show,
Ozzie and Harriet, you know, where
cops come and got your cat outta the tree
all your friends died of old age,
But you see, I live in
South Central Los Angeles
and unfortunately...
SHIT AIN'T LIKE THAT!
IT'S REAL FUCKED UP!

Goddamn what a brotha gotta do
to get a message through
to the red, white and blue?
What I gotta die
before you realize
I was a brotha with open eyes?
The world's insane
while you drink champagne
and I'm livin' in black rain.
You try to ban the A.K.,
I got ten of 'em stashed
with a case of hand grenades.

Tell us what to do... Fuck you!
Tell us what to do... Fuck you!
Tell us what to do... Fuck you!
Tell us what to do... Fuck you!

You know what you'd do
if a kid got killed on the way to school
or a cop shot your kid in the backyard.
Shit would hit the fan, muthafucka
and it would hit real hard.
I hear it every night, another gunfight,
the tension mounts,
on with the Body Count.

Yo, Beatmaster "V", take
these muthafuckas
to South Central.

Ha ha.
Find more similar lyrics on http://mp3lyrics.com/wXWYeah
Fuck that.

I hear it every night,
another gunfight,
the tension mounts,
on with the Body Count.

Last weekend thirty-seven kids
killed in gang warfare,
in my backyard.

No!
No!
No!

Yo, Ernie C., take these
muthafuckas home.

Yeah.

Yeah, we in the house, Body
Count fools, 1991
muthafuckas.

I hear it every night,
another gunfight,
the tension mounts,

on with the Body Count.

Goddamn what a brotha gotta do
to get a message through
to the red, white and you?
What I gotta die before you realize
I was a nigga with open eyes?
The world's insane
while you drink champagne
and I'm livin' in black rain,
don't you hear the guns
you stupid, dumb, dick
suckin', bum politicians.

Tell us what to do... Fuck you!
Tell us what to do... Fuck you!
The tension mounts...