Fuck tha po-lice.
But don’t fuck with your brothers.
They play it hard
‘cuz that’s how they know it.
My li’l brother. Missed him my tour.
Gotta bad rap.
Badly rap. Lyrics hit home. A lick: and it sticks.
Slap. Earn your keep.
Don’t keep their earnings.
One year, was too late for forgiving.
Back to the word,
the hood and the streets. Fuck tha’ po-lice.
We the production. The studio’s our shrine.
Anger, my perfection. Sold some albums.
All ‘em hands over the head. Heard.
Shit catches up.
Security. Checks. Contracts. Money’s got a bad rap.
Feel me, cassette tape?
The aftermath is more homie.
Hard hits my voice. Play it. It keeps.