Lyrics:
on fucking cellphones
I been going through it yea my life really a hell hole
Only mom and girl know
Only god and my niggas showed
Project baby but ma sure we
myself, 'lone for many years
Nothing's wrong, just results on how them questions made me feel
I made it home, seven years of tour, chasin' manhood
But
be weary, watch for caution, yo be warned
By Dre and out the project born
Capable in any and every
Cause yo I get heavy, when introduced to a medly
I said I'm cooler than a
Fan fresh like it's Easter
Pull up on that banshee be
Like Hasta la vister
Heser thought that's what they
All say skeezers
I
can't have enough
Homies wanna go and break the law cuz they hearing Three Six said it
I ain't lying I'm feeling like Project Pat if I said it I meant it
niggers with me on a,
So I recommend your fagot ass to walk by, we movin' money
Touch the sky the, the more about the might dollar
Let's keep it real, ya
(rollin)
by the night time our pockets is swollen (swollen)
from dust to dawn we stay posted up in project homes
keep a plastic tone y'all want it bring it
to come out the hood, in cuffs or a casket
Or crazy, or shootin' three pointer baskets
Or maybe, it's the rap shit, all type of tactics
We use to get dough,
dealers
And cold hearted killers
Could it be it's in my blood
Cause my mom sold drugs?
She used to bust slugs and
Surround herself by thugs
Made mistakes by
'Cause I hate to see somebody so great in that way
I would a stayed so long with so much to say
I had to put it in writin' to keep me and Brooklyn from
fake
Cause I hate to see somebody so great in that way
I would of stayed so long with so much to say
I had to put it in writing to keep me
lovin our slang
And we hold heat for war, niggaz doin they thang, mayn
So get it up, if ya hood what ya brought up
Take a bloody Mary straight
some motherfucking shit happen, man
It's your boy Yung Joc, you know, Block Entertainment
And my motherfucking nigga Trae, asshole by nature
Ay, Trae,
believe it my niggas say
He was sellin' grenades
Keep bullshittin' and ima sit you
Where the bomb at
DC nigga, sittin wrist whip dough
He ain't know
Richie
Who, by the way, was a Commodore
One time she gave mouth-to-mouth to a snaggle-tooth boar
Who couldn't breathe right since the Vietnam War
Then
to laugh when it's happenin' in layers.
I'm not Peter Pan, I'm not Robin Hood,
But folks keep treatin' me like I'm lost in the woods.
(Verse 2)
I try
Supreme comes to give his boy a pat and a pound, put his hoodie on the couch, his Timberlands up on the chair so his bitch can bring him a beer. So, this is
Now motherfucker, where you was before?
And I don't feel, got coke
Just cause I be on tour
Fucking hood's finest
Niggas label me a street sign
Cause I'm
end my little war with the Rico
Bitches lookin' at me, Keisha look at all this change
It's the heart of war tour bus full of K's
Master P money I could
jealous cause I got it by the tons
Twenty fifty hundred, is how I count my bills
Then I take it slow because it runs into the mills
Brothers try to step
away what? I think you better forget it
Pit-pat this Jack, get off of the crack black
It's the true fact, your record hit the pillow sack
And now
off to the good
Can't even say I didn't know you would
Make a little money, get it from the bro
Bring that shit back to the hood
Anytime you see me,
Not a gun or a rifle
Not a knife for them to stifle
Put my hand upon the Bible
Open it and get an eye-full
Tryna keep my head
Above water and not
they slick
Till you get your ass set up by a project, bitch
It's hard to process quick, you could lose your life
By a baby tiny loc, tryna prove they
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