|
Police stop our car
'Cause we have tribal plates
And they think that Grampa might have some peyote
In his medicine bag
Police open up
Gramma's suitcase and purse
Throw her underwear all along the roadside
And make her curse
They say they need to assimilate us
And their lookin for illegal aliens
And they think that we might just have them hidden up our butts!
Police call me chief
Make me lie on the ground
Tell me I fit the profile
And that I'm prolly prison bound
Police tell me that
They know we're all just drunks
We believe in weird superstitions
And our religion's bunk
I wanna thank all the New Age weirdos
I wanna thank all the dread-locked Rainbows
I wanna thank all the sensitive seekers
For the strip search that I got!
|