| They don’t give a fuck
|
| So I don’t give a fuck
|
| Makes me wanna holler
|
| Throw up both my hands
|
| They don’t give a fuck
|
| So I don’t give a fuck
|
| Makes me wanna holler
|
| Throw up both my hands
|
| They don’t give a fuck
|
| So I don’t give a fuck
|
| Movin through the L.A. streets with the homeboys
|
| Dippin in the toy, havin' Chips Ahoy…
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| Cookies, and these rookies still can’t see us
|
| A lotta people wanna be us cause we’s the O.G.'es
|
| Real Eastside riders from the hood
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| And I wish niggas would
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| Come at me like it’s all good
|
| If y’all could you’d probably do the same thing
|
| Rap, sling dope, pimp hoes, or gangbang
|
| And it’s a goddamn shame, but
|
| Now the babies is the ones blued down and flamed up
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| Saggin with they neighborhood flag inside they pockets
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| Think they ain’t? |
| They even spraypaint the sprockets
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| On they bike, yellin, «What that Eastside like?»
|
| Gettin high in the bleachers while the teachers on strike
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| Books collect dust on they shelf
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| Parents either dead or gone, so they raise theyself
|
| But who cares
|
| Some talk about killin, some hear about it, some do it
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| Some can’t handle it, and others just numb to it
|
| You think we got problems? |
| They the ones
|
| Cause kids is havin kids, and kids is havin guns
|
| Ask yours daughters and sons what they learnin in school
|
| And watch em look at you like you a fool
|
| All they learn is how to smoke a beedi
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| How to do a tattoo use a rubber, cuss, fight, and write graffiti
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| The tv and the radio is raisin em
|
| Parents hold your breath, cause death ain’t even fazin em
|
| A single mother out workin like a slave
|
| Ain’t no homecooked meal, just a microwave
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| Oven, what happened to the lovin?
|
| Good taste done been replaced by pushin, and shovin
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| It all started at home with the family
|
| Now we can’t save em, or can we?
|
| Who cares
|
| Makes me wanna holler
|
| Throw up both my hands
|
| They don’t give a fuck
|
| So I don’t give a fuck
|
| Don’t nobody care what happen to us
|
| Except God Almighty, in whom we trust
|
| I bust rhymes like these for a reason
|
| Cause for everything up under the sun it’s a season
|
| To live and die, laugh and cry
|
| Everybody knows shit happens, but nobody knows why
|
| And they don’t even try to learn
|
| By lettin the 5 Percent teach em, it’s like they rather burn
|
| And for niggas just to turn they life around and chill
|
| It’s harder to save, than it is to kill
|
| As we spill each other blood in the streets
|
| I see yellow tape and wonder who that is up under the sheet
|
| Another child just got shot down
|
| Now what’s the chances that they not black and not brown?
|
| A lotta people crowd around cause they feel they got to stop and stare
|
| But they don’t really care
|
| Who cares?
|
| Makes me wanna holler
|
| Throw up both my hands
|
| They don’t give a fuck
|
| So I don’t give a fuck
|
| Makes me wanna holler
|
| Throw up both my hands
|
| They don’t give a fuck
|
| So I don’t give a fuck |