Lyrics Dead Homies - Goodie Mob

Dead Homies

Ha ha
Yeah
What’s happening world
This is for all my homeboys who didn’t get to see a new year
Yeah, yo
This for my homeboys dead and gone
Off in the bushes, we pour out liquor, and roll up swisher smoke
The hood has changed since you left, man
I see your mom and dad got a new jag
Little Jason work at Papa John’s, saw your other brother Kelly
In the basement at Killer Bee’s house
Tuesday night fights, ESPN, Sportcenter, big screen
You know how these Eastpoint vets do
Can you recall riding bicycles in the trails behind
Krissy Collins dropping Huffys like BMX’s
Your first car was a Honda, my first car was a rabbit
Cut parties with a tall can or something
Off in the 800 Ol' E, man, that old girl
She always fell, drunk off the pink champell
Yeah, reminiscing going through adolescence with you
Hoping that these words get to you in good spirit
Your partna Gipp won’t forget you, my little brother
Went to prison last week, since he been in we barely speak
Rest in peace, to all the brothers
And sisters who didn’t make it to see, a struggle
In the flesh, my folk thought I’m in the carcus
I don’t worship the sun no more, I follow David Carresh
So I’m living right, the tears of many with a
Sheet pulled over my fucking head, I’m hanging in there
Like a wasp nest, meanwhile niggas is quiting on me
Falling victum to stress
I’m filling it with your diction homie, but that don’t
Take away from my spirit and my mind, one time
For my homie Barat, and my homie Quentin
And my shawty Felicia, and my partna Floppy
I’m still living for you, I’m still swinging on a nigga
Still pulling on a flicker flicker, as I inhale the smoke
With my kinfolk, G-double O-D-I-E
You want this gold clean and shining
Don’t need to remind me about the divine, he polishes
And demolish his competitors, who was the editor
To bad mouth these boys that bred in the South
Where chicken’s fried on the daily, and rebel flags fly
I have no love for confederate sons but guns
And no hogs' good for me, people like my type
To spark the spiritual fight with the devil off tonight
When he’s white, at anytime, and any rhyme
With substance is looked at as racist
When good ol' boys is still doing hangings
And Mississippi having no pity on my color skin
Not having a choice from the begin, little brothers
Like me to pose a physical threat, but check
Let me grab a hold of my black steel
And I’ll show all y’all who’s real c’mon