Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Pete Rose, artist - Nappy Roots. Date of issue: 16.09.2021
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Pete Rose |
| Cell phone age |
| Tired of «kill Obama» everywhere I piss |
| Roll a bowl and take a toke, twenty-five on a back road |
| Home boy, tell them what you came for |
| Yup, all the G’s and hit the drink |
| Grab the hoes and hit the damn |
| Mother FUCK what a nigga think |
| Us country folk losing hope, ain’t seen much a change |
| Vote upon a vote, but I keep on seeing just the same |
| They say, «home of the free, the land of the brave» |
| I say, «home of the greed, the land of the slave» |
| Got me, chasing this cheese, I’m stuck in a maze |
| Got you like, «FUCK a degree, FUCK it, get paid.» |
| Got Craiglist Killers, deadfish swimmers |
| Go ahead, mark the sins of deadless guerillas |
| Black fist in the air, Olympic winners |
| Give you all you can handle like catfish dinners |
| Scene unfolds |
| Calm breeze, trees |
| Dirt roads, young bloods |
| G’s, street codes |
| Bank rolls, cheese |
| Pete Rose, get yours |
| Got this man fuck a wife, Catholic fuck a kid |
| Boys in the apartment will take your SHIT!!! |
| Watching some Indian -- look at this damn fool! |
| Shot a judge, but let a White bitch drink POO!!! |
| The things a man will do to try to make an honest living |
| Seems impossible when opportunity is missing |
| On top of that, a lot of bills and got to feed the children |
| Uncle Sam is full of shit, we playing Mega Millions… |
| My homie just got out, my cousin going back in |
| Three-quarters of my neighborhood, still packed in a pin |
| I swear the justice system’s set up, to target Black men |
| This ain’t no new phenomenon, been going on since back then |
| Back in Louv (Louisville) where the plot thickens |
| Homicide, looking for leads, the clock’s ticking |
| Shoot the block down, the cops tripping |
| Community motto is «stop snitching» |
| Pissed off, they beat a child up for shoplifting |
| Scene unfolds |
| Calm breeze, trees |
| Dirt roads, young bloods |
| G’s, street codes |
| Bank rolls, cheese |
| Pete Rose, get yours |
| I don’t roll blunts, and I don’t do paper |
| I’m in the corner to myself getting straight-vapored |
| I’m from the Boondocks, A.K.A Bronies Home |
| Po' folks still ball like a snooty hoe |
| Batter batter, swing… |
| Barry Bonds |
| Steroid or not, he still had to hit the ball |
| Dreadlocks don’t mean what they used to mean |
| Now they jiving Li’l Wayne, trying to kill a man |
| Yup, I’m on my Pete Rose, bet it on it, make a killin' |
| Before I lay my head down, I’m trying to get a billion |
| I used to do it for the love, I kind of lost the feelin' |
| FUCK a record deal, middle finger towards the ceilin' |
| I’m in the bucket, piping to Nantucket |
| I brown bag it then I rear cuff it -- fuck it! |
| Black tees, if the tees low, cut-chuck it |
| The old school P can crushed it |
| Scene unfolds |
| Calm breeze, trees |
| Dirt roads, young bloods |
| G’s, street codes |
| Bank rolls, cheese |
| Pete Rose, get yours |