| This is us
|
| Impalas parked next to Bentley trucks
|
| Four bins supposed to be here, I should dig 'em up
|
| But since I can’t, I’ma hold this Henny up
|
| 15 years of greatness
|
| 15 years of hatin'
|
| 15 years of patience, that’s what I had to practice
|
| So I ain’t end up back on that country jail mattress
|
| Fuck all this rap shit
|
| In Compton we in the dirt, sticks on us like a cactus
|
| Cincinnati on, closin' on the third strap
|
| Gave two away to some fans, this my third hat
|
| Runnin' this marathon, I’m on my third lap
|
| Where my key to the city, don’t y’all think I deserve that?
|
| L.A. sheriffs left Ryan on the curb, flat
|
| 37 shots, so I’m on 133rd strapped
|
| 40oz love, white Air Force Ones in the mud
|
| Young front end on the Cutlass like, «What's up?»
|
| See my dead homie mama, hop out and give her a hug
|
| 40oz love, niggas gon' ask, so choose one, Crip or Blood
|
| Money fallin' out your pocket while you’re sellin' drugs
|
| Every drink of Old English, grab a cup, I fill it up for you
|
| You outta gas? |
| I fill it up for you
|
| You surrounded in the club? |
| We pullin' up for you
|
| You went to jail? |
| I took that money, I put it up for you
|
| You still got your hand out like I ain’t did enough for you
|
| You put on that snitch jacket and it stuck to you
|
| On my life, I love you but I can’t fuck with you
|
| I gotta stick to the code
|
| Never slip, never fold, stay rich 'til I’m old
|
| Love my kids on my soul
|
| Both my baby mamas know if I go, open the safe and give 'em all the gold
|
| And my cousin, Magic Cold, he in the pen on his toes
|
| How you talk them people into transferrin' you to a level 4?
|
| He got 20 months left, that shit movin' hella slow
|
| 20 blunts, half a pound a day until they let him go
|
| I give him 30 racks every time he touch the surface
|
| I’m startin' to think this nigga goin' to jail on purpose
|
| Either way, I gotta keep givin' you 40oz love
|
| White Air Force Ones in the mud
|
| Young front end on the Cutlass like, «What's up?»
|
| See my dead homie mama, hop out and give her a hug
|
| 40oz love, niggas gon' ask, so choose one, Crip or Blood
|
| Money fallin' out your pocket while you’re sellin' drugs
|
| Every drink of Old English, grab a cup, I fill it up for you |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song 40 Ounce Love , by - The Game. Song from the album Born 2 Rap, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп