(Intro: Solomon Childs)
Word, nigga it's like
I always felt like I was trapped (Right, yeah)
I always come home, and I still on parole
And shit, I only felt like I was trapped
It's like I'm not anymore (I feel you)
And I'm still gettin' money
I'm still hittin' bullets, I'm still makin' moves
Man, rules gotta be made, man, it's like this ain't even a game and shit
Yo, check this (Tell 'em how it is dun!)
(Chorus 2X: Solomon Childs - inspired by G. Rap's "Streets of New York")
A little kid says "yo!"
I got a colored T.V., C.D. player and car stereo
And all I want is a capsule
I also got a .38, don't give me no hassle
(Solomon Childs)
Sellin' cracks to buy Timbs and shrimp fried rice
And project life, got a hell of a price
Shaolin, Body Brighton, ain't nothin' nice
Five hundred Benz parked in front of the hood
Twenty two years up in the hood
Code of the streets, money on the wood
Top the world, fish scale fragments
Roaches infested in model mahogany cabinets
Whatever you need, so whatever you askin' for
This the theme for a project war
Yo, this what a thug about, millennium pace
Poppa said they fuckin' wit you, punch 'em in they fuckin' face
To each is own, this is the projects, son
Hold yo own, you livin' in the projects, son
In '86, I was rockin' mocknecks, in '88, I was blazin' big Tec's
How many times must I say King of New York
Before it goes through ya thick head
And understand that I'm all on it for the bread
Solomon could hit a code red, this is for the food on the table
This is for the Pay-Per-View on cable
This is to give my daughter horses up in the stable
Not for nothin', but from losers to fuckin' wit winners
Barbeque potato chips, now I'm eatin' lobster dinners
This is ghetto, ashy, grimy... huh!
(Chorus 2X)
(Solomon Childs)
I smell fear in ya heart, shootouts inside the Moncaro Park
Burnin' in the dark, Cuban Link dead Jesus cross
Renegade lyrical force, underground, never the boss
Try to see more units, then the Titanic, be easy before ya scwal panic
Listen duke, you soft, wise up or get pushed off
Make the baddest birds get wet when they walk
Do the knowledge to the thug talk
Lyrics is realer than Bronx Supreme Court
This is a bloodsport, wallet and fats from Southport
Huh, I declare doomsday, representin' for Henderson and Broadway
(B-Town baby) show you how to stag g's
(Hook 2X: Solomon Childs)
All you cats trynna sound like the dead
These the realest lyrics ever said
And to beatmizers, pullin' the same strings
Pushin' the same buttons, yo, on the frontline
(Outro: Solomon Childs)
...But she want me to keep money in my pocket
What kinda madness is that man?
What you talkin' bout, yo
You know it's hard for a brother to get a job
And you can't really do it like that
Cuz you ain't really tryin' to be behind the cash register
Flippin' no burgers and shit
You got the fuckin' hat on, you lookin' like a real cornball
And she's constantly tellin' you
"Yeah I need money, I need money"
And then the next cat up in the muthafuckin' draws
But you know what? Hah-hah, hah-hah-hah
