| This is the story of a place, that we call home
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| Where the kids pack heat when it’s time to roam
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| Everybody’s on the scramble, life’s a gamble
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| Hoppin on the white horse, tryin to get a handle
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| On the fast pace that we call the last race
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| Step wit precaution when you enter this place
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| We got a spot on every block that makes ya dreams come true
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| Just come correct wit the snapses or ya doo
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| Don’t come cryin broke, still tryin to cop the dope
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| What parts of no, do not you understand bro
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| We can’t afford to take shorts or be playing sports
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| Empires need to be built, mack 10's bought
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| Or even caught for them deceased ass hustlers
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| And we still got the pound for ya living muthafuckas
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| What goes around comes back to the roots
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| See you at the revolution and Crooklyn, true
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| We live in Brooklyn baby
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| We try to make it baby
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| We gonna make it baby
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| We live in Brooklyn baby
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| Another day, another dollar dead
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| Pigs rushin the crib to catch a collar now I’m fed
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| What the face now, me and my people’s taste crown
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| Stayin face down, while K-9's sniffs around
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| What they found was irrelevant, the weed cuz
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| They was sent to represent and cause a ruckus amongst us Now I got more pigs rushin we, handcuffin me Takin hold of we, in the custody
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| For blushin in, rasta boy restin in peace
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| After going through the bullshit, we in release
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| To hit the streets, where the war still off for all of y’all
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| Cuz they kept rule locked behind the wall
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| No time at all, no fake, no jacks
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| Perhaps when the gat spins, niggas won’t even know what happen
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| I’ll be glad when my man come home
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| Cuz in the zone muthafuckas grab ya chrome
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| The eye three time, as lead transpire
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| Currency change, change from yours to mine
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| Greenbacks talk bullshit, floats on water
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| Pager goin off, call comin from headquarters
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| I was told if the secret code appears
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| It means some bwoy want dead, prepare for warfare
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| Fuck the truth, we bringin the noose for ya loose talk
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| So think smart, or rest in parts if ya do start
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| I fucks wit, the poor, so fuck being rich
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| Word is bond, there’s a muthafuckin war goin on Stand strong, on ya own two, mista
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| Or come confront the grim ripper
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| Black hoodie on, black dusty fatigues
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| Bloody red afro, puffin on the black weed (on three)
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| He lurks in the shadow, so when you sleep in the battle
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| That’ll be, and tell ya punk lib to tattle
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| Salute, to each and every hood label truth
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| Doin what you gotta do to bring in the loot
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| Huh, the time has come for armageddion
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| Give nurture to your seeds, and load up ya guns, dunn
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| Now catchin vibes, that somethin ain’t right
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| Gettin little hits, stomach fillin up tight
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| Damn, these little nappy head cheap trait bastards
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| Run around town wit the cronz trynna blast shit
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| Ain’t nuthin sweat like the dark streets of Bedstuy
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| Creepin population, endin up in C.I.
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| Take a ride through the Flatbush side
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| See the dred and he caught for support, hit me off wit the lye
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| Now slide, through the ville, death row, say hello
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| To the fam that stick to K.I.M. |
| that’s planned
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| Toward the east, somethin’s goin on So burn the buds, and all my people in Medina stay strong |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Home Sweet Home, artist - Smif-N-Wessun. Album song Hellucination b/w Home Sweet Home, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп