[Verse 1: Jay Jones]
Shit, I never wanted hand-outs
I said I'ma take the man route
Went from staying in Gram's house
Got bread to get the fam out
I tried to get away but the streets got me
I'm in the trenches, I could be on the beach probably
But Lord knows
Ready for smoke, go grab the black bag, ain't doin' that bad
They say I never seen a rap check, fuck history
I never failed a math test
Bullets can't even hit a G, I guess you say I'm that blessed
Section 8, like the projects
Soak in it, let it digest
Started off with weed and I graduated pyrex
Roll it up in a leaf, that's my relief, along with Hi-Tec
Got n***as on the street, I'm wondering how they ain't die yet
Shit, cause shit ain't the same, n***a
So watch where you hang, n***a
Don't get your ass in trouble
You thought life was a game, n***a?
I did this off the muscle
Me and you not the same, n***a
Same hittas, turn your fitted cap to a drop-top, brain missing
South Beach, I got a Cuban bitch from Jermaine, n***a
Plug daughter, I might just flood the streets with the 'caine, n***a
Times hard, but you know sun gon' shine after rain, n***a
Never [?] eventually they gon' change, n***a
Bang, don't like to talk about it
I get to thinking they won't put shit in a coffin 'bout it
Go Vietnam, invest in bombs and start war about it
Murder your moms, ignore the lines cause we gon' cross them out quick
Shit, you live by the gun, you die by the gun
I get so high, I just said hi to the sun
I told my girl we need to have a lil' son
Ain't giving up until the battle is done
Don't give a fuck because I feel like I won
[Verse 2: Curren$y]
City small, so the wrist big
I went through a shit storm, but I'm still here
I just slid through the door before that bitch closed
And then attached a C4, blew it off the hinge
Bitch, let my homies in
Dig this, n***as ain't slick, I'm on it
We talking 'bout how to fix you this morning
That cake baked, n***a just wait
I'm on skates, Dayton's on my Chevrolet
New Impalas every dates
N***as dying everyday
This New Orleans, what's new?
Be cool, 'fore the next robbery right here be about you
They shook
Rap cappers, no hooks, behind back passes
Alley-Oops, no looks
We all on the scoreboard, we All-Stars, like Chuck Taylor's
Racing Lamborghini's with soccer players
Off season in Brazil, cheefin'
Eastside to your side, it ain't easy