| Word to mama, man, damn
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| Tryna get the fuck up outta there, huh?
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| It’s real life, man
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| Just gotta keep your head in the right direction,
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| Don’t play with these niggas out here
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| Gotta be strong though
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| Only the strong survive, you heard?
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| Real rap, The Chef, yeah
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| Hey, yo
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| From blazin' chandeliers on throats, we gangstas with hope
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| With trappers in traffic, there’s land on the coast
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| Pipelines be pumpin' nighttime with kilos dispersed
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| A bulletproof hearse in back of the church, see they grind
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| The timeline won’t even last, they 25's, quick to spaz
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| Yeah, then flip on that ass
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| The block’s burnin'
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| Narcs and sharks, thugs and drugs
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| Clogs and knots and rocks and parks
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| Hold your slime, I need money
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| But hate bein' the stickup kid
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| 'Cause what I did could have cost me a whole lifetime
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| And everybody knowin' everybody
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| Niggas in front of the lobbies until bodies drop
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| How he got lined?
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| Keep it movin', keep your loved ones movin'
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| See, we started a movement
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| I guess we Grand Groovin', y’all
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| Checks the shines until then we fine
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| Cash rule everything around mine in the mind
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| Now rewind, yo
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| What is it?
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| Real-life
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| Huh, traumatizin'
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| Word up
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| Concrete jungle
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| The real question is
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| What I didn’t see, ha ha
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| Uh
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| Days to decades, the drugs raids to sex craze
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| From Fruits Loops and leche made it to head jefe
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| Fiends on check day, murder scenes when the TEC spray
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| The segue, you gotta have sight beyond the X-ray
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| Pump shotties, slump bodies in front lobbies
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| Young hotties gettin' drunk hoppin' in Mazzies
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| Blunt robberies, niggas owin', tip toein', it’s sick
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| Been in the mix since Slick Rick flowin', legit
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| Lost for words when they offed the homie Surge on the jooks
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| My whole outlook on life was blurred
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| Them corner curves just bein' there, ain’t even fair
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| And as far as leavin' there, if you do, I don’t even care
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| Seen it all from Sutter Ave to Seton Hall
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| East Elmhurst to Eaton wall, we grieve and more
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| Same song just sets changin', rep claimin'
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| From sellin' crack to rap, I kept aimin'
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| Yeah, Kay Slay shit, baby
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| Let’s go in
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| Shootouts, unexplainable murders where shit runs deep
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| Late-night commotions, the neighbors can’t sleep
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| That’s why I pose in the flicks with my heat, one deep
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| I got burners all over the place like a song leak
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| My man open arms for a hug, I’m reachin'
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| I gotta tell myself take your hand off the grip, they greetin' (Get off the gun,
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| man)
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| Automatic spit like a dumb bitch with a tongue ring
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| It’s classic like them DAT machines up in King (Woo)
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| Death before dishonor, we pray for your mama
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| She don’t never have to pick a killer’s face in a lineup (Nah)
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| His criminal lawyer, his face resembles a young Oscar De La Hoya
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| This kid’s attorney is torture
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| In these streets, dust heads big bags of
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| Like a skeleton sucked in, they bones is weak
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| Miss ya, ATF come through swingin' that big shit
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| No Popeyes, they here to put two in your biscuit |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Growing Up In These Streets , by - Dj Kay Slay. Song from the album Living Legend, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп