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[Cormega] |
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Yo, I live the life of '62 pick-ups |
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Pumpin' on corners, beat downs to stick-ups |
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Seein' events, of which I had to stay silent |
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Murder, extortion, and all types of violence |
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Kids, livin' the life of ghetto heavens |
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Sellin' cracks, ready to attack with knives and mac-11's |
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Havin' dreams of being big bosses |
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Driving porsches, by the time, they get rich, they corpses |
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Son, it's a shame, but in this game |
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The strong survive, either get live or get slain |
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Cuz in the ghetto, respect is mandatory |
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Drug wars ignitin', mad fightin' for territory |
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My niggas, steppin' with automatic weapons |
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Stick up kids, with .357's |
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Yo, it's violence, I know old timers move silent |
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But nowadays, niggas be wildin' |
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Drug dealers stylin', with 5-series Beamers |
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It deep the way, sunny day, don't seem to reach us |
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Forty-five under the seat of a Lexus |
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Thugs rollin' with bulletproof hats and vestes |
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Earnin' ya props off big dime rocks |
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Your man shorty rock is on the block with a Glock |
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He just got knocked, now he's out on bail |
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For semi automatic, and a undercover sale |
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Trained mercenary, with a heart that's cold |
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Pushin' an Acura, at 17 years old |
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In the passenger seat, and he's smokin' a blunt |
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With some shine on, any live nigga would want |
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Somebody wasn't up on and you know what they want |
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Tellin' shorty, run the jewels and don't try to front |
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Shorty reaches for the nine, but before he could shoot |
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Blood scattered in the '92 Acura coupe |
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Another victim of modern day stick-ups |
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This is the life of '62 pick-ups |
