Lyrics:
this one ought a be clubbed
Love when I'm rubbed the wrong way, so some offend me
Dismissed by many, my Christmas spent in the lab
Pen and pad while
[Wyclef]
Ladies N gents
Back by popular demand
Its the G&B with Carlos Santana
[Product g&B]
Li we in up in here its not a game no more
You
bump that bass
Wit that sanctafied sound produced by that playa Chase
Like Mase, 'I'm fittin, makin ya feel so good'
When I bump this gospel music in
The hooker and the gunman
Barely more than a fucking child
And up the fucking hills
Silicon mummies by their pools
Sips their fucking drinks
And smile
about respect?
I'll put your bitch in check, and I'll bet
You won't run up, son of a punk and a bitch, too
I shoulda did a drive by on you and your
rhyme'll get him by
Now he's leaking H2O, he couldnt escape the flow
Sitting nervous, waiting for his first tape to blow
For him success means try'na make
Satan is not by himself. And then at times we only say "Satan I bind you" but we must now say "Satan I bind you, I bind your angelic race, and I bind your
ain't no punk
Dougie D so thoed, and they already know
The Trae and the J Z-Ro, by bo
Got a kin folk raw, that be gripping a gun
I got a king folk
Well, It's yours
What makes you journey into the night
And take flight on a pursuit of musical bliss?
Chasing beats through ghetto streets
The ghetto ain't fabulous
And yet you tellin us
How you came straight from the gutter
And how we gotta bust
I've saw behind the bars
You know they life is
shit make sure my shit ain't hay
'Cause if it's hay when you bring it
I'ma get to wingin' ghetto bling blingin' leave a nigga head ringin'
Fo show
paper, shit is still ghetto
But fuck it black, you living your life, though your loved ones
Peace to your daughter and your newborn son
It used to be
why I'm prayin for my comrads, speek the word to this generation
Don't be deceived by this divination, or be fallen to this fornication
Chorus
Chose
old school drops on gold feet
Roll sweets wit the bomb in it
Smokin' on bomb spinach
Ride by you wit the 100 spokes spinnin'
No linen, I'm just thugged
fanin my face, others give me grapes
By the grace of God, I was given the job
To run through the rap game like corn on the cob
So blessed in my test, I
hold on, don't let go
And way to feel, do what you know
Just stay strong, keep your head up high
The real'll be real, while the fake pass you by
I'm
a game in my vein
Verse 1: Mac
Murda murda I wrote it in braile
Uncut, lyrical dope, certified by my scale
The homicide rapper, there'll never be another
This here a true story about ghetto love
This shit that happened to a young nigga like Mac ya heard me
Check it
I met you at a fast food spot
time to vote
And if I did Mr.President wouldn't understand
Life in the ghetto
I'm the trouble man
(Willie D)
What ya know about the trouble man
the pull to the ghetto set it on a brick suck a dick, 'cause your fuckin soft.
They all say Violent J ain't with it .
When you was rollin with your dad,
New Jack sit, like G and Nino
Shit is real dunn, me and Hav rap for guns
You just a son, you be hung by the skin on your tongue
P.R.'s
tellin where I'd be
Dead or in the penetentiary
From shootouts wit my enemy
Squeeze until my clips empty
But would they give sin to me
By the hands
wie Beats by Dre
Ich verdeal mein Tape, denn ich rapp straighter als der Rest
Wenn du nicht gewusst hast wer der King ist ja dann weißt du's jetzt
the niggas in the ghetto be hatin on you cause you made it out?
Yeah son, what is that, what you call that?
Dad, that only be two words. PLAYA HATA.
.jpg/220px-Chilldrin_of_da_Ghetto_(album).jpg "Chilldrin of Da Ghetto")
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