| Ay it’s like, me and this nigga Eclipse
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| been workin on this shit hella hard for hella days
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| Y’know, knahmsayin? |
| Been since like
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| '95, both graduated and shit
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| Shit changed a grip for me this year
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| '95 was some shit, check it out
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| It was '95, the year of my graduation
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| I was in, great anticipation of my date of release
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| from this educational prison, moms made the decision
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| to throw me from the residence
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| It seems weed and hip-hop had taken precedence
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| over my responsibilities, but it was alright
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| Because that day to day bullshit was killin me So willingly I left the home
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| And set out on my own, shacked up with some crew Saga and Rhythm
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| Didn’t have to give 'em any rent
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| So hella time was spent up late night, freestylin gettin high
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| Not knowin how I would make it to school the next day
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| From the Westside of L.A., I had to hit the 33
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| And now I hear them fools from Red Dots is out to murder me So certainly stresss built
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| Takin bus to night school every day, coulda got my ass kilt
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| But I had to get my credits straight
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| Plus the bus ride gave me time to meditate
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| on how to set this shit straight
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| So late one night, I called up moms then we reached an agreement
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| Which only delayed, it didn’t prevent what was bound to happen
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| She said she wasn’t trippin just as long as I got a gown and cap
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| Then came graduation day, the only nigga to walk the stage
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| with a zero point five four five GPA
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| I hand her the diploma, and she still have shit to say
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| And it’s fuckin off my vibe, and the album’s on its way
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| I couldn’t prolong the day when Murs
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| and the real world would collide
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| The year was nine-five
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| The year was nine-five, I thought I wouldn’t survive
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| Livin in the city where it’s a day to day struggle to survive
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| The year was nine-five
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| I struggled my way in the summer and now the album’s almost done
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| But now is when the crew starts to fall apart
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| One by one, we disassembled, which sorta resembles my life
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| Fallin apart, right before my eyes
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| So I fantasized about havin a video, and bein on tour
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| to keep my mind off my empty stomach, and sleepin on the floor
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| Bein that I’m broke, I’m stealin groceries from the store
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| And now it seems every battle I have turns to beef
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| And me, broke with no heat
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| I’m lookin over both shoulders whenever I hit the streets
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| And just when I thought I escaped defeat
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| I’m sittin with my homey and we smokin a beadie
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| When this cop see me, and he decides to procede
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| A young black male with dreads, it gotta be weed
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| So he comes over with the usual, disrespect
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| But that’s all I’ve come to expect
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| from a motherfucker with a badge and a God Complex
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| Next he’s askin questions, testin my patience
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| Finds out I’m underage, now he’s writin a citation
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| Askin me to stand up to be frisked, I’m like «Man fuck this!»
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| Then this bitch cop snatched me up from the back
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| I turned around, to counter the attack
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| But I’m surrounded by five cops who don’t appreciate the reply
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| So it’s me they hogtie, and throw on the asphault
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| Steady talkin shit, standin over me like it’s all my fault
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| And now I got a court case to face
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| And in the first place, I barely got enoughs to survive
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| So when the court date arrived
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| I damn sure don’t got enough for a fuckin bus ride
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| So they give me a warrant, failure to appear
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| The next week I’m at the pier with my crew
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| I seen this fool I battled a couple days back
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| Hadn’t seen him in a few, I stepped to him
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| He’s like, «Dude we need a rematch, you see my ego’s been scratched»
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| And when I tell him that shit ain’t gon’happen
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| His ese partner went and opened up his trap
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| and tell me that the odds was uneven instead of leavin
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| I turned around and put this motherfucker in his place
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| And at the same time, his homey all up in my nigga T.S. |
| face
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| So I’m think we 'bout to squab; |
| but then the cops mob
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| and break it up, now they feelin like, they did they job
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| But here they come, back up the street hella deep
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| Talkin shit like we wasn’t gon’trip
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| So I took the first hit
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| And now we squabbin in the middle of the streets
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| The odds was 3-on-6, and we still held it down
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| Except for the one so-called homey
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| who stood there, held the radio and looked around
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| And it seems like forever that we fought
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| but it eventually, came to a halt
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| So then we hit the park, to discuss what happened
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| I wake up the next day, these fools is talkin 'bout cappin me?
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| Takin my life, over a fight, nah that couldn’t be right
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| Lost sight of where I’m livin, Los Angeles
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| where fools ain’t givin a fuck, stuck in the same place
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| with decisions to make
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| Either I kill them, they kill me, or I make an escape
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| So I took the money that my step-pops left me when he passed away
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| And moved up to the Bay, only to find out
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| niggaz gon’have problems, wherever you stay
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| And it’s been a couple of years
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| and some of these fools is still trippin to this day
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| So I feel I can safely say
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| that on this planet there ain’t no place like L.A.
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| (There ain’t no place like L.A.)
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| Mid-City fool, bitch!
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| {"Heated, defeated, day after day
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| Daily survival tactics in L.A."} |