| Been through the storm, through the cold and rain
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| Everything’s still the same
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| Can’t control how I feel
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| Sometimes it’s hard to keep it real
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| You see the luxuries in life, with the fortune and fame
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| Like them Cadillacs with sunroofs mayne
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| So many ways to make a dollar
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| Huh, sometimes I think about my father
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| You see my poppa was broke, and my momma was young
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| Tryin to blend in with them city folk
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| Every day landlord knockin down my do'
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| Wonderin where my next blessing is comin from
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| My momma and poppa, moved to the U.S. as Jamaicans
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| Struggled to get visas and green cards through immigration
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| Though my pop was po', stayed away from crime and malice
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| Hard living gave him hard hands and callous
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| As a young’n, peep how much they loved each other’s space
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| His hard hands rubbin against the pretty skin of my mother’s face
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| Dig for treasure 'til his hands looked like hands of a junkie
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| So coarse, slap a mule and take the life from a donkey
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| On the other hand, mommy was the type to work two jobs
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| Never enough money, that’s why I got your whole crew robbed
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| Got older, developed ways of grippin the steel
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| Barely home for me to see her, or get a good cooked meal
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| Seek refuge in the alleged land of the free, lookin
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| Blendin in with city folk, down in Flatbush Brooklyn
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| Feel a little of my pain, follow and sing to it
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| Homey I seen it all, if you ain’t knowin I been through it
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| In other words I
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| Got a little older, late teens, me and my crew would huddle
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| On the corner late nights, plottin to escape struggle
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| Nights got cold and still would hustle in the same place
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| In front of Pancho Delis, now the freeze up on a nigga face
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| 1987 Reaganomics ever curious
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| To visit other cities, out of town kick was serious
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| Guayanese jeans bounce, put whatever slinger on
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| Whatever slinger came back, quickly brought me right along
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| Nigga ran away from home
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| Doin different wild shit, just to put a pair of Filas on, 'Didas on
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| Wreck is all for the good, gettin into shit
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| Like we innocent, actin older than we should
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| Walk around broke in the hood, watchin all the rich niggas
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| These younger thugs who try to choke and try to get niggas
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| Thinkin 'bout my mom and pop, while I’m monopolizin
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| To hell with just gettin by and economizin
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| It’s kinda hard bein humble in the belly of struggle
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| Doin things that probably get you in trouble
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| That’s why we stay up on the block, gettin money while we keepin it safe
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| In front of churchgoers keepin the faith
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| Mom and pop be worryin for they son
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| Despite they struggle and their honest livin look and see just what I become
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| A scavenger, in brute pursuit to be happy, another young’n that’s wildin
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| Across the line until somebody tryin to cap me — ohhhh shit
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| I been through the storm
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| Through the cold and rain
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| Everything’s still the same
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| Can’t control how I feel
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| Sometimes it’s hard to keep it real
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| Woooooooooooooo-whoahhhhhhhhhhhhh
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| Yeahhhhhhhhhhh-ohhhhhhhhhhhhahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh |