Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Dead Homies, artist - Goodie Mob. Date of issue: 28.06.2004
Song language: English
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 |