Lyrics Pete Rose - Nappy Roots, Khujo Goodie

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