| I got your card, fool, you think that niggas ain’t deep
|
| You called me nigga, now my homies put that cracker to sleep
|
| I’m ready to set-trip, nigga, go get your shit
|
| I’m ready to slit, no fuckin joke
|
| Bullet Loc, I’m comin to slit your throat
|
| I’m in the chow hall (?) nigga for pork chops
|
| Wonderin will it ever stop
|
| Black, whites and s.a.'s on (?)
|
| But you got your strap and I got my strap and you gon' do your thang
|
| And I gots no love for you cause nigga, you not from my gang
|
| So you take your side and I take my side and ride till we all die
|
| Homicide the opposite of suicide
|
| How does it feel to have that shank in ya?
|
| Ugh, Mr. Ray Dog is gankin ya
|
| Ah, battery pack to the back of the dome
|
| Parole shot me down, so it ain’t no goin home
|
| So now I won’t see board for a year
|
| But in between I’m loc’in up, shakin a few and drinkin a bottle a of Thorazine
|
| Dazed out, wishin that I could come back
|
| In the rubberroom ass-naked holdin my sack
|
| But no doubt, I gets back out in six months time
|
| They bustin a spread to celebrate, right, back on main line
|
| Bust some flicks for a couple of bitches before I do work
|
| Cause when I’m puttin it down, it ain’t no tellin who get hurt
|
| Cause I be kickin up all this dust without no fuckin trigger
|
| So now you understand why no cracker don’t call me nigga |