Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song My Diary , by - Jim Jones. Release date: 22.08.2005
Song language: English
My Diary |
| Now we try corners |
| Old folks try and warn us |
| The cops try and swarm us |
| Blocks hot like saunas |
| Well fuck it I’mma risk it |
| Got a blunt nigga twist it |
| Imma get drunk with my biscuit |
| 5 cent cup, take a sip kid |
| I’mma product of the p-jects |
| My teachers always told me that I’d prolly be a reject |
| I came up by my lonely now I’m a product of that D-Set |
| Two twelvin with my homie, he caught a homi of that Dwyck |
| He said it had him zonin' left the body in bulding three steps |
| The project now on fire every where you see the detects |
| His high is coming down cause now he’s nervous smokin bogies |
| And now he findin out that fuckin murder was his co-D |
| And this the shit that happens all too often up in Harlem |
| No shit you smell a rat you better off him whats the problem |
| In this business sellin crack we cook that raw shit up to hard shit |
| And tell my fellas that and to my coffin steady mobbin' to my coffin |
| Steady mobbin' |
| Take a look into my eyes and you’ll see all the pain the ghetto brings |
| Take a journey through my soul and lets |
| Roll through the streets of reality |
| They tell me slow down I’m livin' life fast See they don’t all wanna |
| Ride with me |
| I know it ain’t right but this is my life |
| It’s just a piece of my diary yeah |
| Now, we ran wreckless, no grown-ups to guide us |
| So it’s the man what you expect, I’ve grown-up to violence |
| I had my eye up on the pushers, the ones that stay fly |
| Fiends got high off the suga, you know that ain’t riiight |
| That sweet cane, some got buried to the street game |
| My niggas only worried bout the jewelry and the street fame |
| And what the bitches thought of them, it’s all about the money |
| Well shit I cop some Porsche or trucks |
| 'Member I was hungry, I was whippin in the Corsica |
| Hoopty muthafucka, hoppin the double four’s |
| My pants droopy muthafuckas |
| And pardon my grammar, my nana died '95 |
| So I done left my heart wit my grandma |
| I hid outside and played the park wit the hammer |
| And I’m watchin for the narcs, they movin cars with antennas |
| Thug and respect, for all my goons behind bars in the slammas |
| To my G’s on Rikers, to all my three time lifers |
| This is my life we die young cause we livin fast |
| So I’mma let you read my diary I’mma let you read my dairy |
| Now lets ride (to where), to Harlem, the Westside |
| I show you blocks and murals, dawg where some of the best died |
| (Like who… like who?) Like Porter and them |
| I heard Po put the order on him, now that’s more than a friend! |
| But he stitched of course, now let’s talk about Fritz the boss |
| And he got rich off snort, they said 500 bricks was brought |
| So in hindsight, it’s a shorty who couldn’t get a gist of his thought |
| But if you grind right wit the snorpy, a whip could be bought |
| Now think about po-9, if it caught me, how it get you in court |
| But now the feds, they still tailin me, DA think he nailin me |
| I had to turn in the goons come and post the bail for me |
| Still in the Byrd Gang myself, you say Byrd Gang is wealth |
| And all the liquor stores, man the Syzzurp on the shelf |
| I rose from the dump you see, now it’s Dipset, Byrd Gang the company |