R.U.I.N. - St.Hood lyrics

(Verse 1) (R.U.I.N.) Ivory tower academic, you can expect him/ To have troubling looking in the mirror, learning to accept it/ See, cause I can read a book called ‘The Problem of Pain'/ That shows pain isn't my problem at all, cause it truly ain't/ My real problems are cowardice, privilege, and status/ I was born white but when I'm blamed for it, I just can't stand it/ Our preliminary anguish/ begins with military language/ Expressing our sorrow to all those who can't understand it/ Screaming at Heaven “What the Hell?!”, don't ask what is hell? / They living through it, their wish is at the bottom of the well/ So consider me a Goonie, not a Chris Columbus/ Cause I've seen poverty's riches, they yearning for Justice/ At my life I am disgusted/ so blessed are the destitute/ Share a lot with the rest of you/ but we better learn To discuss if/ we are the deadly dreaded discontents/ Of a civilization God never meant to exist/ (Hook) (Woodz) Welcome to St.Hood/ Whether on the block or in a mansion, you know sh** ain't good/ Welcome to St.Hood/ Wonder if Heaven got a ghetto? Yup, its here so stay put / Welcome to St.Hood/ Whether on the block or in a mansion, you know sh** ain't good/ Welcome to St.Hood/ Where Pains are lessons, and revolution brews life that tastes good/ (Verse 2) (Woodz) Money is the motive, tax 'n' control'em/ Japedo is my homie, generation raised off hot dogs 'n' bologna/ ‎Only hope in the lotto/ Ain't no such thing as starting from the bottom of the bottle uh/ But we still here/ Momma told me if u wanna stack the paper gotta get a career/ Only when I'm sober minded is my judgment clear/ And the media reminds me of what it looks like to live in fear/ Cops 'n' robbers, stocks 'n' Bala clavas, Iraq gun shot non stop gotta survive it By any means necessary/ Fiends for the green no such thing as fighting fairly/ Hosting party as bohemian grove no joke/ United snakes don't play the game, they pave the road/ Two lanes with only one way to go Maintain capital gain price tags on your soul.../ (Hook) (Woodz) (Verse 3) (R.U.I.N.) My Grandmother keeps sending us lottery tickets/ But that's just a tax on the stupid and the Poverty stricken/ Imagine if 50 Million is what they're giving away/ What they got in their pocket, from the sh** that you play/ Grabbing your keys and coins to scratch up your Bingo cards/ Like their petitions to God/ to change your positional stars/ So look at all the people reading ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad'/ They ain't got time to study politics or know what's NORAD/ Sometimes I feel like unions arguing over their payment/ Are just a bunch of slaves, talking about their wages/ So thank you McGuinty for my tuition discount/ Maybe I shouldn't bite the hand that feeds me or take this route/ I fully understand that I'm in a privileged cla**/ But that don't mean Capitalism was ever fit to last/ Or that my comfort, is an excuse for injustice/ So I desire the Kingdom of God, nothing else but this/ (Hook) (Woodz)