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Ghetto tabernacles congregate
to hear the sons of Eli preachers beg and holla
Saying to the colorful captive audience:
they gonna get their piece of the pie in the by and by
It’s waiting in the oven ... baking in the sky,
and they will get their slice when they die
But as for the here and now,
the plastic preachers plead:
You poor souls gotta dig in your pockets,
out of your famine need
You must give til your wallets and purses bleed,
let your prayers show some real pain
Shout loud to the ritzy preachers, 
whose flock live uptown
Render supplications to their starry cloth God,
whose wearing a tri-color striped suit
Listen to the high place shepherds say:
you ghetto sheep got nothing to lose
So shut up ... get fleeced, 
and sing the money blues

Cash register ring:
Cha-ching ... cha-ching       
*$*$*$
Soul sorry sing: 

Slave quarters and plastic dollars;
living in the poor projects,
only got enough to get by
Preachers beg and tongue holla;
donate your welfare checks,
buy a piece of the air pie
Beware of those backward collars
always asking
for the silver coins and green dollars
Telling you 
you’re gonna get your turn at the spigot
Selling you
a bunch of malarkey by a secular bigot
Slave quarters and plastic dollars,
just the same ole same old
Preachers beg and politicians holla;
the smart play: truth poured cold ... 
put your pocket money back on fold

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