HarlemsOwn
RIP Fresh
Listen
I grew up where them people called them people on us
Think we slangin, but we just got beepers on us
Grindin' all day like we got sleep insomnia
Livin' like the videos write a treatment on us
Stuck in the hood like they put cement on us
Ghetto birds still shyttin on us, government still quittin' on us
Lost a few homies and the grief still sittin on us
So we got the names writtin on us, white folks still spittin' on us
And them bytch ass police canines, teeth still grittin' on us
But we smoke, ashes still gettin' on us
All the bytches still hittin' on us
I remember well, Bezzy roll the L
Bezzy ain't here... where's Bezzy at?... Bezzy got killed
And that was my nikka, I go way back wit my nikka
But I know thats how it happened my nikka
shyt is much deeper than this rappin my nikka
But now they all rappin, my nikkas, so now I must make it happen
So I'mma play the captain, sail boat flappin my nikka
No fingas I'm snappin', happy for my nikka Lil' Tiggas
Cause even though we couldn't, The Lord saved him
Last time we seen him was when Katrina hated
Found his body like a month later, Rest in Peace boy
He was a East boy, and so was Wesy West he was a good nikka, so I know he blessed
And his daughter is a princess, this shyt is harder than a bench press
But I'mma keep goin, and I swear I got a lump in my throat
But I'mma keep on pumpin a float
So if I cry dont stop the beat, I feel like my heart just stopped the beat
My nikka Lil' Derrick is quick to cop a key, either that or load the gat and go pop a G
And because of that he's just a name in a rhyme of mine
I pray for his family and his mama
So much shyt, just sit on this mind of mine
I think about it all the time
I drink about it all the time
I smoke back to back
Cause if my thoughts got to me I'd be in this rap
Or I'd be in the can, thank God I had dreams of being the man
Yea
And fukk a man with a badge, cause he ain't shyt to a man on the edge
The five o killed naughty good boy dead
Man you woulda thought they killed corn bread
Shot 'em up face down on the lawn
Not to mention with his handcuffs on
Not to mention they had plain clothes on
And the complain goes on
But dont nobody do nothin' bout it
The jail house and the mourge is too fukkin' crowded
And haters at an all time high
Everybody gotta hate us like a fukkin iPod
shyt and they tried to burn my phantom up, but I got my gun license
I got my hammers up, im ready to shoot like a camera
Stay still mothafukka I'mma have to write my will this summer
Cause if they don't kill me, I'mma kill this summer
Yea
And you can put that on my late father or my late grandmother
Ms. Mercedes Carter
Or my grandfather Larry Bosock
The old man hustle 'till his heart stopped
And all I no 'bout my real pops is that he had money
No bank account, that brown paper bag money
Yea he might hit me off wit a little brag money
But the nikka still wouldn't be a dad for me
But look how I turned out I hope he glad for me
But thats why when I see him I act mad funny
Cause he's a joke to me
Don't message, don't call, don't talk to me
It's just me and my mama how it's suppose to be
And I make sure she paid like she rode for me
And I know she gets all hope for me
And I don't ever want to see her mope for me
Hopefully, but truthfully there is a day that's due for me
But we gone pray it's as far as the future sees
You are listenin' to the future Wee-zy F. Baby
Amen
I grew up where them people called them people on us
Think we slangin, but we just got beepers on us
Grindin' all day like we got sleep insomnia
Livin' like the videos write a treatment on us
Stuck in the hood like they put cement on us
Ghetto birds still shyttin on us, government still quittin' on us
Lost a few homies and the grief still sittin on us
So we got the names writtin on us, white folks still spittin' on us
And them bytch ass police canines, teeth still grittin' on us
But we smoke, ashes still gettin' on us
All the bytches still hittin' on us
I remember well, Bezzy roll the L
Bezzy ain't here... where's Bezzy at?... Bezzy got killed
And that was my nikka, I go way back wit my nikka
But I know thats how it happened my nikka
shyt is much deeper than this rappin my nikka
But now they all rappin, my nikkas, so now I must make it happen
So I'mma play the captain, sail boat flappin my nikka
No fingas I'm snappin', happy for my nikka Lil' Tiggas
Cause even though we couldn't, The Lord saved him
Last time we seen him was when Katrina hated
Found his body like a month later, Rest in Peace boy
He was a East boy, and so was Wesy West he was a good nikka, so I know he blessed
And his daughter is a princess, this shyt is harder than a bench press
But I'mma keep goin, and I swear I got a lump in my throat
But I'mma keep on pumpin a float
So if I cry dont stop the beat, I feel like my heart just stopped the beat
My nikka Lil' Derrick is quick to cop a key, either that or load the gat and go pop a G
And because of that he's just a name in a rhyme of mine
I pray for his family and his mama
So much shyt, just sit on this mind of mine
I think about it all the time
I drink about it all the time
I smoke back to back
Cause if my thoughts got to me I'd be in this rap
Or I'd be in the can, thank God I had dreams of being the man
Yea
And fukk a man with a badge, cause he ain't shyt to a man on the edge
The five o killed naughty good boy dead
Man you woulda thought they killed corn bread
Shot 'em up face down on the lawn
Not to mention with his handcuffs on
Not to mention they had plain clothes on
And the complain goes on
But dont nobody do nothin' bout it
The jail house and the mourge is too fukkin' crowded
And haters at an all time high
Everybody gotta hate us like a fukkin iPod
shyt and they tried to burn my phantom up, but I got my gun license
I got my hammers up, im ready to shoot like a camera
Stay still mothafukka I'mma have to write my will this summer
Cause if they don't kill me, I'mma kill this summer
Yea
And you can put that on my late father or my late grandmother
Ms. Mercedes Carter
Or my grandfather Larry Bosock
The old man hustle 'till his heart stopped
And all I no 'bout my real pops is that he had money
No bank account, that brown paper bag money
Yea he might hit me off wit a little brag money
But the nikka still wouldn't be a dad for me
But look how I turned out I hope he glad for me
But thats why when I see him I act mad funny
Cause he's a joke to me
Don't message, don't call, don't talk to me
It's just me and my mama how it's suppose to be
And I make sure she paid like she rode for me
And I know she gets all hope for me
And I don't ever want to see her mope for me
Hopefully, but truthfully there is a day that's due for me
But we gone pray it's as far as the future sees
You are listenin' to the future Wee-zy F. Baby
Amen
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