| My mother said my father was a real livewire | 
| Hustled on the avenue of Lennox | 
| That he was a don, shot dope in his arm | 
| Paid visits to the methodon clinic | 
| A straight womanizer, no religion | 
| He just leaned on bitches | 
| His name rung in the slums, niggas run for they gun | 
| Blood thirsty, he was so vicious | 
| Poppa was a rolling stone (he left a long time ago) | 
| Poppa was a rolling stone (he never ever was at home, no, no) | 
| Momma said daddy’s dead (stop messing with the baby’s head) | 
| One day he’ll grow up strong (one day he’ll be a man) | 
| Momma said father was a mean muthafucka | 
| A clean muthafucka, a lean muthafucka | 
| Got money in the pot, got his pops in the block | 
| For sellings rocks, a dope fiend, muthafuckas | 
| He struggled all his life, got blood on his knife | 
| Light skinned, he had your eyes | 
| But my mother couldn’t handle him | 
| The liquor, the gambling, plus he had four wives | 
| My mother said my father had a real bad temper | 
| Loud, wild, he was too foul | 
| With no hesitation, he would kill you | 
| With no education, he was still proud | 
| With his brother Big Harvey, he did a bank robbery | 
| A car flipped, all the money spilled out | 
| Before it was done, police caught him with some | 
| Riddle of bullets, he died in a shootout |