| Geah. |
| whassup?
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| Where’s all my street niggas, project niggas
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| Real niggas, worldwide
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| Let’s reflect. |
| e’rybody got a story
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| We all ghetto B — here’s mine
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| Geah
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| See I was -- born in sewage, born to make bomb music
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| Flow tight like I was born Jewish
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| Used the streets as a conduit — I kept arms
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| 38 longs inside my mom’s Buick
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| At any given moment Shawn could lose it, be on the news
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| Iron cuffs — arms through it; |
| or stuffed with embalmin fluid
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| Shit, I’m goin through it — mom dukes too
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| Tears streamin down her pretty face, she got her palms to it
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| My life is gettin too wild
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| I need to bring some sort kinda calm to it
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| Bout to lose it; |
| voices screamin «Don't do it!»
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| It’s like '93, '94, bout the year
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| That Big and Mag dropped; |
| and «Illmatic» rocked
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| Outta every rag drop, and the West had it locked
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| Everybody doin 'em, I’m still scratchin on the block
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| Like «Damn; |
| I’ma be a failure»
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| Surrounded by thugs, drugs, and drug — paraphenalia
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| Cops courts, and their thoughts is to derail us
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| Three time felons in shorts with jealous thoughts
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| Tryin figure where your mail is, guesstimate the weight you sellin
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| So they can send shots straight to your melon; |
| wait!
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| It gets worse, baby momma water burst
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| Baby came out stillborn, still I gotta move on
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| Though my heart still torn, life gone from her womb
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| Don’t worry, if it was meant to be, it’ll be -- soon
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| This can’t be life, this can’t be love
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| This can’t be right, there’s gotta be more, this can’t be us
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| This can’t be life, this can’t be love
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| This can’t be right, there’s gotta be more, this can’t be us
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| Chill dog
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| Second oldest born, from Michelle Brown my mother
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| Hell bound, grew with two sisters and one brother
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| Pop wasn’t around, so many stories that’s another
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| I’m thinkin damn; |
| how my older sister gon' make me tougher
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| When steel sharpens steel, I’ma keep it real
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| I’m tired of tryin to hide my pain behind the syrups and pills
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| Dead to the world, stretched out like a corpse for real
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| Y’all niggas thinkin what y’all readin in The Source is real
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| What my life like, you lookin at the source, it’s real
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| What your life like? |
| Mine dog, of course it’s real
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| Passin judgment, you niggas second-guessin Beans
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| Cause you don’t eat swine don’t make you Amin
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| Dog you know a couple suras, out the Qur’an
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| I guess you all on your din and I ain’t on mine
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| Stop that Akki, 'fore I send shots though your body
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| Make 'em feel feel hell on earth before Allah drop thee
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| I feel the line’s drawn here, nuttin more can stop me
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| Till them feds pick me up, or them boys pop me
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| There’s only three things that make Mac not act like Beans
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| Amatullah Tisha, Po Aldin, Samir Amin
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| My seeds dog, gotta teach 'em that before I leave dog
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| Shit I know that I’ma see 'em when I leave dog
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| I come back in the afterlife
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| Like fuck it I done touched hell twice; |
| what’s the meanin?
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| Yeah. |
| uhh.
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| Now as I walk into the studio, to do this with Jig'
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| I got a phone call from one of my nigs
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| Said my homeboy Reek, he just lost one of his kids
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| And when I heard that I just broke into tears
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| And see in the second hand; |
| you don’t really know how this is
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| But when it hits that close to home you feel the pain at the crib
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| So I called mine, and saddened my wife with the bad news
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| Now we both depressed, countin our blessings cause Brad’s two
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| Prayin for young souls to laugh atlife through the stars
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| Lovin your kids just like you was ours
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| And I’m hurtin for you dog; |
| but ain’t nobody pain is like yours
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| I just know that heaven’ll open these doors
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| And ain’t no bright side to losin lifel; |
| but you can view it like this
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| God’s got open hands homey, he in the midst. |
| of good company
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| Who loves all and hates not one
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| And one day you gon' be wit your son
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| I could’ve rapped about my hard times on this song
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| But heaven knows I woulda been wrong
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| I wouldn’ta been right, it wouldn’ta been love
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| It wouldn’ta been life, it wouldn’ta been us
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| This can’t be life
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| This can’t be life. |