| What’s the word, what’s the word, what’s the word? | 
| You are now about to witness the strength of narcotics | 
| Who’s that peekin' in my screen door? | 
| I got what you need, what you fiend for? | 
| Bobby Johnson ain’t my OG, this ain’t no movie, bro | 
| Pop’s was off that O. E trippin' gettin' his Tookie on | 
| Thunderbird with Gold D’s, a felon and parolee | 
| McDonald’s for the Double Cheese, pockets fit a couple C-Notes | 
| Up on the screen, Dolce in the pack it up and leave | 
| But we don’t read those | 
| Cause the money comin' faster than your bitch, nigga | 
| All my life I wanted to be a rich nigga | 
| But homie let me proceed | 
| Pop’s was moving slow poke, that’s way before the codeine | 
| Just methadone and powdered H to junkies with the sour faces | 
| Knocking on the screen door asking for their homie Nate | 
| Ten to twenty each, 4p.m. | 
| he leave so don’t be late | 
| Mom up off of work asking me if anybody came | 
| To kick it with my dad or was he chilling in the alleyway | 
| He was in the alleyway, that’s what he always had me say | 
| Slangin' for them bills he had to pay somebody at the door | 
| Pots on top of the furnace, Glocks on top of the kitchen | 
| Table-tables is turning, now my father is trippin' | 
| He shootin', sniffin', and sippin', pigs recruitin' them snitches | 
| Cause testimonies from homies can lead to longer convictions | 
| Police knockin' at my door, pretendin' nobody hear him | 
| Police knockin' down my door with judicial system permission | 
| Contraband in where we livin', hope I don’t get thrown away | 
| In the prison dogs are sniffin' backyard full of canes | 
| Catch a case and not get out, niggas fighting every day | 
| Choppers circle cause a nigga chop hard on the blade | 
| Got broads on the base, slangin' rude, we bangin' too | 
| Where you from? | 
| If they got that back, we clapping coming through | 
| Going dumb, 40's selling water profit from the slums | 
| Since we was young money been the motive | 
| Nigga get you some guns and dough | 
| Bruh I love them guns and dough | 
| Find me slangin' for the low | 
| Come around, you getting domed, somebody at the door |