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Now when I just made 12 years old |
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My mama told me:'Baby boy, you know you gotta be strong |
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And even though they lead you wrong, stay on the right track |
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Cause it ain't no get right without some get back.' |
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Yeah, I heard that, but back then I didn't feel it |
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Cause I was rollin' do or die, tryna see me a ticket, just kickin' |
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G-block, I said I'll never leave |
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Even when the rollers chase me down til I can't breathe |
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Nigga freeze, who me? Oh, never that! |
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I'm hittin' fence after fence until I'm chillin' at my doormat |
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Like a mack I had to get away |
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Cause I'm a smooth operator, ask Shanda |
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But the rollers in the V is so shady |
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If they could, they would plan something on me |
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But really, them ain't the fools I gotta worry 'bout |
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Cause white folks goin' loced in the white house |
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And I doubt a republican or democrate |
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Gives a fuck about us young inner city blacks |
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It's a trap, Uncle Sam keeps cursing me |
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Rather have me in the pen than the university |
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Yeah, it's a shame but mane, that's how it is |
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So ya better peep game and try to lace ya kids |
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Cause it ain't no tellin' what's soon to come |
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When the punk president might drop the bomb |
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Got me all stressed out with my brain on numb |
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My little cousin asking me where dope come from |
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[Chorus:] |
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They try to tell us in the verses and the scriptures |
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But I guess the real message must have missed us |
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In '96 all my brothers and my sisters |
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Is on a mission, we're trippin' livin' senseless |
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Tell me, will I see the sun in days to come |
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Will blacks be the victors instead of victims |
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Or will my people keep killing over fuckin' crumbs |
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Pushin' dope just to reach ghetto stardom |
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If you ask Mac Mall who I'm voting for |
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I say:'Farrakhan' as I'm hittin' the bomb |
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I .. to the swisher or the dohja spliff |
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Get elevated to another as I reminisce |
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About fresh candy paint and peanut butter tops |
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Young hustlers havin' paper, livin' top notch |
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And then the D-game straight decline |
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And all you Sawyer turf niggas makin' headlines |
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10 o'clock news or America's most |
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Unsolved mysteries, you better soak some dope |
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Then the judge starts droppin' the injuries |
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On all the gangstas, playahs, macks and G's |
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And you know you wont see 'em til about 2 thou' |
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Cause ya boy got washed with a faulty assed trial |
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But at least one day he gone be free |
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Some soldiers ain't never gonna see the streets |
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That's why I keep servin' game over my beats |
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So all my people, in and out, can straight feel me |
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[Chorus] |
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There is nowhere for me to run |
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Nowhere for me to hide from reality |
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But I don't wanna be a casualty |
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Of another tryna smother a brother just cause my salary |
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And dog, I tell ya that these times' so sick |
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That my sister's smoking dohja, 8 months pregnant |
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My brother bubble on the grind and he's way legit |
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Working on his third strike and he still won't quit |
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But I can't tell him nuttin' bout a salary job |
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So in order to get tha paper the boy gotta mob or sob |
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All will fall to the waistside |
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While the rollers overlook they wanna take lifes |
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Youngstas they gettin' raised off the T.V. |
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Got white kids around the country wanna be me |
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And the way they point the finger ain't even shob |
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Television replace religion, now the gangsta's god |
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And old folks wonder why we so crazy |
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90 knuckleheads and 70 high babies |
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And can't nobody tell me that I'm wrong |
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Uncle Sam finding ways to fit computer chips in my dome |
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So I should ask before you slip |
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See it's higher than the ultimate trip |
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[Chorus] |
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You know, dedicated to DJ Cee, S-Double the Mac |
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Reach Ghetto Stardom |
