Alba s touto skladbou:
The Battle of Los Angeles,
I be walkin' god like a dog
My narrative: fearless
My word war returns to burn
Like Baldwin home from Paris.
Like Steel from a furnace
I was born landless...
This is the native son
Born of Zapata's guns.
Stroll through the shanties
And the cities remains.
Same bodies buried hungry,
But with different last names.
These vultures rob everything;
Leave nothing but chains.
They Pick a point on the globe,
Yes the pictures the same!
There's a bank, there's a church, a myth and a hearse,
A mall and a loan, a child dead at birth.
There's a widow pig parrot,
A rebel to tame,
A whitehooded judge,
A syringe and a vein.
And the riot be the rhyme of the unheard
Whatcha say,
Whatcha say,
Whatcha say,
What!
Calm like a bomb!
This ain't subliminal.
Feel the critical mass approach horizon.
The pulse of the condemned
Sound off America's demison.
The anti-myth rhythm rock shocker -
Yes I spit fire.
Hope lies in the smoldering rubble of empires.
Yes, back through the shanties and tha cities remains,
The same bodies buried hungry,
But with different last names.
The vultures rob everyone,
Leave nothing but chains.
Pick a point here at home,
And the picture's the same.
There's a field full of slaves,
Some corn and some debit.
There's a ditch full of bodies,
The check for tha rent.
There's a tap, the phone, the silence of stone
The numb black screen,
That be feelin' like home.
And the riot be the rhyme of the unheard...
Whatcha say,
Whatcha say,
Whatcha say,
What!
Calm like a bomb!
There's a mass without roofs,
A prison to fill,
There's a country's soul that reads post no bills.
There's a strike and a line of cops outside of the mill.
There's a right to obey
And there's a right to kill.
