| «I remember one time I was over at my Auntie house
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| spending the night. |
| And we playin' Super Nintendo.
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| I hear this lady: 'Yo, I heard you been looking for me, nigga'
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| Then she just -- boom-boom-boom-boom-boom!
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| She let off about eight shots. |
| Then I heard the other gun fire off
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| and we were just still there playing there, like nothin' happened.
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| And then Vietnam, them people came back crazy. |
| I (live) in Vietnam
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| So what you think I’ma be if I live in it and they just went and visited?»
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| Suckers could not survive without philoso-phy
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| When somebody dies, you see why I’m not suprised?
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| Had a plot to rise since I looked in the doctor’s eyes
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| Since I started drinkin milk through what’s homogenized
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| I would strive with or without a pops to provide
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| Moms still cries 'cause she fell for a crock of lies
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| I try to teach her to fight her fears
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| I try to teach her to wipe her tears
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| Don’t worry, shit gon' be aight this year
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| I’m at the top of my game, just watch for my name
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| Better off poppin my brain than poppin my chain (dang!)
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| I claim king without droppin a thing
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| When they ask if I’m the best, I reminisce of the bing and think…
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| When I was ten, I seen my first automatic weapon
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| A Glock Nine -- two clips.
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| I seen all kinds of guns -- .44, .22, (Techs!) Techs. |
| I saw rifles.
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| Mac 10, Mac 11.
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| Living around here. |
| You hear shooting all the time.
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| Damn.
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| The drama’s pitiful, lil' niggaz is homicid-ical
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| Couple meals ago, shorty was eatin through his umbilical
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| Now he feels he unkillable, shit is all amazing
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| The wrong altercation’ll leave his ass with a long abrasion
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| I try to make my life de-focal through rhymes
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| These niggaz do vocal booth crimes, I shot niggaz multiple times
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| You sold a few dimes, but when you rappin, you the crack king
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| I sold it to whites when you thought it was just a black thing
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| I’m filled with this realness, rappers happen to lack it
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| I’m flabbergasted you got a platinum plaque for that wack shit
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| All the real gangstas, they on their way to bein dead or in jail
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| They don’t make records to sell
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| I asked my father, Chill, what his best memories of my mother are.
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| Me and her have fun, putting our feet in the water together
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| We were sober then… but once we started gettin high.
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| Them memories gone… They gone.
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| Why are you drinking?
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| I don’t understand why I’m drinking.
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| Do you think you’re gonna stop?
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| Yeah, I’m going to rehab, and take care of myself.
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| What do you drink?
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| I drink about two or three pints of wine a day.
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| But it ain’t helping me, ain’t doin nothin' but killing me.
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| Don’t people understand it’s destroying you?
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| If it’s destroying you, why do you still drink?
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| Do you think you’ve been a good father?
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| Yes, I have, to the best capability I could.
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| I have no further questions.
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| The drama’s pitiful, lil' niggaz is homicid-ical
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| Couple meals ago, shorty was eatin through his umbilical
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| Now he feels he unkillable, shit is all amazing
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| The wrong altercation’ll leave his ass with a long abrasion
|
| I try to make my life de-focal through rhymes
|
| These niggaz do vocal booth crimes, I shot niggaz multiple times
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| You sold a few dimes, but when you rappin, you the crack king
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| I sold it to whites when you thought it was just a black thing
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| I’m filled with this realness, rappers happen to lack it
|
| I’m flabbergasted you got a platinum plaque for that wack shit
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| All the real gangstas, they on their way to bein dead or in jail
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| They don’t make records to sell
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| They don’t make records to sell
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| They don’t make records to sell
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| They don’t make records to sell
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| They don’t make records to sell
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| They don’t make records to sell |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Oh Yeah (Our Babies), artist - Saigon. Album song The Greatest Story Never Told, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп