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Yeah I could load a 9 up everyday, but why |
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My locc's told me homie make them tapes |
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And keep that 24 block alive |
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But if I feel I'm in need, I got's to ride |
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Carry a 9 for straight business, not just a side |
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Man it's the night-mare, creepin up in the cut |
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I'm hittin dice games, barbeques, no matter what |
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The things I've seen'll make ya throw up |
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Flaunt your flag, shoot your gats, hit your dank |
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Where I'm from that's how ya grow up |
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Man it's that wicked and 9 millimeter |
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Carrier bein stereo-typed daily |
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Ya got's to feel me, foo it's that baby |
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Killas run around everyday that's why I'm strapped |
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Ya heard it I got my own back-fade |
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Out into the 'lac and hit the city of Sac |
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Them homies given me that |
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But you got them fools that want a foe then |
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They wonderin why I'm carryin me a 12 gauge pump |
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Man I ain't no punk |
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The average everyday thug that's how it sounds |
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I'm defendin myself, and loadin that mili |
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And leaving em layin |
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[Chorus] X 4 |
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Deep down, there's a place for hope |
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[Mr. Doctor] |
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I guess it's hard to explain why I'm feelin how I'm feelin |
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I guess I'm feelin sorrow cus my homies got some stealin |
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And foos would say that it's my fault I bet |
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See cus I wasn't strapped yo, but I can't f**k my set |
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How could I know that them foos would blast? |
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Later on, on my folks |
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It's funny how this bangin's got its different strokes |
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I think about my loccs and how they made it |
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Though I'm stressin from the fact |
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They gotta suffer from a bullet hole |
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And Mr. Doctor just don't have hope locc |
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It's only been a month, since my last down partner got smoked |
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And rivals is deep, up in my city foo |
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Since I'm on the underground team, I can't have no peace |
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My life is tore up so I guess I'm stuck |
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Yeah, I got my St. Ides, I'm turnin it up |
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To get drunk, then I post up on the street |
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While I say to myself, for the block |
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Homie rest in peace |
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[Chorus] X 4 |
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[Brotha Lynch] |
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They say that ain't the way to handle that type funk |
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But now I'm loadin up the strap, smokin on that blunt |
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Just cus the Brotha Hung is flag-up |
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What that mean, I can't ride? |
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Why G's up in my face, I'm bout to help them ride |
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I keep a low pro, drink the 4-0 |
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And lounge until it's time to go |
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Shinin up the forty-fo |
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Rollin up the boogey-boo, indo |
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And hopin if I should die, before I'm high |
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That they bury me in 50 pounds of chocolate thai |
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I got them homies from the south-side givin it up and |
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Them homies from the east-side slangin that stuff and |
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I'm right up in the middle tryin to hang on and |
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Tryin not to end up like them niggas doin time in the pen |
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But then again |
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I'm down for when the homies is ready to roll em up |
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You know, stick in a dark-blue cut |
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And as I'm creepin through ya set |
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Trip, don't get caught up, shot up |
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The gardenblock locc's, man we leave em layin |
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[Chorus] X 4 |
