Lyrics:
fuel, ain't gonna move, and I betcha
A carpenter can't build his house without his tools, I bet you
If the shoes are too small they hurt your feet,
said shit would be simple, get rich and stay out the trenches, Lincoln Continental
Remember back to get by applyin' fundamental
In these streets you
a cold game
Played by the coldest man
Everything ya see is not
The 7-4 k
The son of cocaine
I'm a dopeman
Plus I'm holdin' weight
Cause I'm the dope
nine on jam
I'm a rider you can't take it out of me man
I be wilding, you can wait by my house for me fam
I will fire and drop a hater rite where he
inside the drum
Seen junkies shootin' up a needle in the cut when I was young
Had a tool on me no harm, I just knew to get me a drum
Popped one, can't
gon' go on vacation
Wait, damn, okay that's way too far ahead of me
So I'm just tryna take it day to day if they would let a G, breath
Cop cars by
a n**** reach
My dogs will bite you and guess who the n**** leash
I was once told by my n**** Meach
You feed a sucka' he just grow to be a bigger leach
heart
Bopping down by the whirlpool
I met a girl she was god's tool
I said girl wouldn't you like to rock
But could it give me love
Give me little love
threw up (threw up)
At Leimert Park, taggin', hittin' fools up
Ditching my class, just to fuck yo' school up
You don't wanna blast, nigga tuck yo' tool up
on pork
Kurupt the world's fetish
They feen and scratch
I'm multiplied by twenty thousand
Fiends and crack
You add me to music and the fiends react
So they looking for me they don't know
I'm waiting on them
Right here, I'ma sit by the window
See they gonna have to get me
Yeah, they gonna have
Let me slow it down for 'em
(A guy by the name of PepperJack Zoe)
Duh-duh-duh
Skrrt, skrrt
Duh-duh-duh
Yeah, yeah
Dope sold, money fold, then
SK's moving mad uno
Yo, yo
Yo, yo
All of these tools on the opp block, watch it get poppin' like Mary
Big Rambo, tryna shave mans chest but I
friends for my crib
On some literal fuck shit what up bitch
Day and night I pray that I could find the
Tools to face this life on my own
No, no, no, no, no
up with little proof
Hopped off this stoop and cocked this duece
Adopted by the street life
Moms was juice and riches
Pops was tools he lifted, son
a beat by the pound
Nigga you just an ounce
Fuck that you just a milligram my nigga
Tryna get a glimpse of the life
Yo my life is like sorta like
I heard your album and I don't believe a word of it
I think you're soft like that trick, Mother Hubbard
Fillin' the cupboard with gang goods
Like
pumpin' 93 say, "What's up
Church?" when I ride by in
That blacked out Ford GT
They write me stuff in my PO
Tell me 'bout their broken homes
Tell me 'bout
now we got mobile phones
Me and my homies used to battle at the park
We had to be back on our street by the time it got dark
We used to wear cross
crowds
As torturas - the tortures (in the 60's, a lot of people were tortured and killed by the government)
De longe vem a forte chuva - from far comes
Rappers, beam em up, take their minds and broaden it
Set em back to Earth and watch the network
Multiply by mega-millions, you witness a burst
Of a new
soul, okay
Everybody wanna be demon 'til they get chipped by your throwaway
And I might do a show a day, once a lame, always a lame
Oh, you thought
to pack up his tools
Guitar Man grabs his Gibson
And puts on his cool jazz shoes
He's the traffic light guy by day
And Guitar Man by night
In the light,
you gigolo
Another hustle has been run
But now you oughta know
That this fool can no longer be swayed
By the tools of your trade
You gigolo
I'm just
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