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Yes and we begin where we left off. Leaving off where, pretty much begin. March with me y'all. |
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On my 27th round trip around the sun |
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Counting every blessing, reminicing on the drum |
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But not for a second ever forgetting where I'm from |
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Others grip the gun, my weapon is my tongue |
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In the military slum |
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Manuever through the sewer that the children call the river |
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We coming home to dinner, make the kitchen smell shitty |
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and shorty felt the pressure on his shoulders but really |
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I jumped out the window whenever pops would hit me |
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an 8 bit nintendo got replaced with the endo |
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eventually my pen would be the means to escape |
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Was 8 in '88 in the 808 state |
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where the 808 kick was my heartbeat |
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It got me in Honolulu, Hawaii to contemplate a career |
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With no pinoys kickin' raps anywhere near |
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Except for my peers |
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Fathers all gone the better parts of the year |
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At the ship yard watching mom wipe away the tears |
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It was hard, but she stayed strong watching four kids |
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I can see how tradition makes us do what we do |
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Like keeping things in plastic so this shit will stay new |
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some things we gotta lose, some things are worth keeping |
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It wasn't all bad, but wasn't all peaches |
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I'ma teach my son to respect his elders |
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but not before they give him respect first, expected |
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On my 27th round trip around the sun |
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Counting every blessing, reminicing on the drum |
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But not for a second ever forgetting where I'm from |
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Others grip the gun, my weapon is my tongue |
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On my 27th round trip around the sun |
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Counting every blessing, reminicing on the drum |
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But not for a second ever forgetting where I'm from |
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Others grip the gun, my weapon is my tongue |
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And I still got casette tapes with tape on top of 'em |
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maybe I should auction 'em |
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Lately I've been rockin' 'em |
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Some of them I coped, but all the rest I went and pocketed |
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Never was the talkitive type |
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After "The Chronic" it dropped |
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Before "The Infamous" my sentiments penned |
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The beginning of the story where the logic begins |
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Went bargain bin digging, the medicine made for listening |
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Never afraid to question conditions that we were living in |
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Even if we decided to live it up a little bit |
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Underwear and socks: what I mostly got for Christmases |
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And if you ever played ball with chinelas on |
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This one's for y'all, 'cause once and for all |
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If you ever held a San Miguel bottle in your palm |
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Or the blocks that you used to stomp upon are gone |
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Or all the above, then let this be the song |
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The steps might be short, but the march is long, come on |
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On my 27th round trip around the sun |
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Counting every blessing, reminicing on the drum |
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But not for a second ever forgetting where I'm from |
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Others grip the gun, my weapon is my tongue |
