| Pain, struggle, we gotta hold our head up, as a people
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| Youknowhatimsayin, we on a prowl
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| Can’t forget the struggle, son, we all go through
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| This for the baby mothers, broken hearted
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| Five seeds in a one bedroom apartment
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| I feel the hunger of my brothers eatin’out the garbage
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| And all my locked up and dead baby fathers, over lady heartaches
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| We play with automatics and revolvers
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| I know chain robbers could of been Vince Carters
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| Can’t ignore it, cause the pain bother
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| Different book, but the same author
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| Recognize, we are the same father
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| We just try’nna feed our family tree
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| So our seeds be insanity free
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| Instead of locked up for scramblin’ki’s
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| OG’s comin’home, he had it sowned
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| But the corner pay phone, in '89, but he stuck in that zone
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| Little Tasha, eight months, and got a baby by the neighborhood chump
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| Who’d rather smoke blunts, then bring home lunch
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| Young ones bustin’they guns with Gem stars under they tongues
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| They got the fathers locked away from the sons
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| Every time I count money and I think about my dead homies
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| (It be that hood love, that keep me healthy)
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| Every time I read a jail letter, thinkin’it’s gon’get better
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| (It be that hood love, that keep me healthy)
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| Every time I hear a seed dyin', more mothers cryin'
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| (It be that hood love, that keep me healthy)
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| It’s nothin’like the hood…
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| Drug shipments, welfare recipients worship Clinton
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| Meanwhile, we got no food in the kitchen
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| Grandmothers turned Christian, try to warn 'em but he ain’t listen
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| Now it’s phone calls from prison, daddy little girl is missin'
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| Thirteen when she started kissing, she came in late pops was flippin'
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| Momma’s boy, sold his cracks, to be employed
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| Not noticin’we caught in the trap, to be destroyed
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| Lookin’out of cab window, same babies in the carriage, now sell indo
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| Carry an info', the sore losers can’t win, so they spread rumors
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| Corrupt cops, either lock or shoot us We love the hood with a ghetto respect, Nat Turner
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| The burner be the mind first amendment, say it, cause I meant
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| Don’t care about those who get offended
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| We rock like Jimi Hendrix, me and my kindred
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| Street corner experts, in jeans and a sweatshirt
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| Teammates kick dirt, for CREAM and a network
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| Your back’ll get stabbed for that cash money bag
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| You ain’t a thug, 'cause your chain, gun and doo-rag
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| New car, new lab, powerful weed from just two drags
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| You coughin’on oregano, be careful who you follow bro'
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| Someone to push your Bentley, but they ain’t ready though
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| Someone to be an M.C., and on the radio
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| Some sell yayo, it’s tricks in the ghettio
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| Chick where my cash go? |
| You just like the last hoe
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| Bloomberg fucked up the crack flow, we let gats blow
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| Twisted colors on our capsule, turn projects to castles
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| You ever heard of the Black Jews? |
| You seen us on the five o’clock news
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| Every time I count money and I think about my dead homies
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| (It be that hood love, that keep me healthy)
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| Every time I read a jail letter, thinkin’it’s gon’get better
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| (It be that hood love, that keep me healthy)
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| Every time I hear a seed dyin', more mothers cryin'
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| (It be that hood love, that keep me healthy)
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| It’s nothin’like the hood… |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Project Love , by - Hell Razah. Song from the album Sunz of Man Presents: Freedom of Speech, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп