| Yo, son it’s real, you know what I’m saying?
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| A man is often condemned or exalted by his words, you know?
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| That’s why we feelin' my niggas going through the struggle
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| QB-Brooklawn
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| Y’all niggas hold on… if you can’t hold on, hang on, you know?
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| Yo, I seen it all, coke rise and kingdoms fall
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| Profits in sneaker boxes, riches hidden between the walls
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| The hood agony
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| I’m one of the few who ever understood Tragedy
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| Batteries not included in my music
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| Or holding up my spinal cord
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| Niggas be lyin' on wax
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| Committing vinyl fraud
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| Denyin' the fact
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| They never slung or fired a gat
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| Mega’s tongue is ghetto, dun
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| Hello
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| Where I’m from is the crime and graffiti
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| And NYPD
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| Broken glass, .44's, open caskets
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| Shorty ballers pop shit when they' rock hits the basket
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| The only life we know
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| I flow so precisely, though
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| My chain got the icy glow
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| Be-Mer Jeep shine with Lorenzos shine brightly, yo
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| Laugh now, cry later, one day I might be broke
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| And tellin' niggas I need coke
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| Shit is real
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| See the good Lord giveth and he taketh away
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| But niggas talk it and don’t live it, then they forced to pay
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| I’m just trying to be a man in this poison land
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| Forgive me, Father — they forced my hand
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| Yo, visualize Mahdi as a shorty Fidel Castro
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| Snotty nose, nappy afro
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| Never realized in due time what I would have, though, yo
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| Before I spit at a ho I used to bag up blow
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| Little bastard — rockin' Pumas under two-tones
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| As we roam from the streets to the group home, yo
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| Watchin' mob flicks, clappin' at imaginary targets
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| Adolescents up in Spofford, facing hardship
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| Newborns grew up on Anita Baker songs
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| In the 'hood, wonderin' why the police hate us all
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| Up late nights waiting for the next day to fall
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| We’re up late nights waiting for the next day to fall
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| My stomach hurtin', still searchin' for a way out
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| On an Island where P.C. |
| was a gay house
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| Made my first board, stabbin' niggas on the way out
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| I knew cats who got bagged they' first day out
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| Yo
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| Yo, Trag, we been down for years (word)
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| From rappin' in the 'hood
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| To promising careers
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| It’s all good
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| The rap game is new to me
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| The crack game — true to me (my life)
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| Accept the consequences
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| And the blood money cruelty
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| Yo, remember you and me? |
| Back in the days
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| You had a sheepskin, I had a goose and Pumas in gray
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| (You remember that shit!)
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| We even did the same dorm in see-74
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| More than boys we were fuckin' outlaws
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| If I could break you out the courtroom, and clap through reporters
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| Kidnap the jurors — and whack all their daughters
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| The Montanas, Al Po’s and Rich Porters
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| Mandela time — get smacked with two quarters
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| A life speed — fuckin' with cracks and weed
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| Yo, I sniffed so much coke, I froze with nosebleeds
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| Jumpin' over snow cliffs without the skis (shit is crazy, yo)
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| Then I saw shit was real, and I switched my steez
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| (outro)
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| Trials and tribulations… you gotta shine…
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| Regardless to what… nah’mean?
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| All of my niggas growin' up strugglin' - word
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| I see y’all out there — live ya life, man, stick your chest out,
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| against all odds, you can handle that shit. |
| If you couldn’t handle it,
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| it wouldn’t fall on you, man — believe that. |
| Nah’mean? |
| Strap your shit up, pa.
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| Keep it moving. |
| Shit ain’t nothin'. |
| We live this, son! |
| Word, that’s what we do
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| nigga. |
| y’all feel that? |