| Heyyo check it |
| This goes out for all of the ones that’s walkin' around here |
| Out in the streets blindfolded |
| Not knowin' what’s really goin' on |
| Nawimsayin? |
| These streets is a habitat baby |
| Word up |
| Pito |
| In the garden of snakes, ain’t no breaks, no mistakes |
| Just games that’s played at high stakes, the next guys wake |
| Try ta fly strait, not violate if you wanna die late |
| The tri-state, crime at a high rate, where peoples dilate |
| Gun shots that make the block vibrate, it shook niggas migrate |
| Some die by fate, yo niggas cry hate |
| A fly facer get they thighs scraped |
| And little PUS that’s why raped |
| A kid inside his gate get murdered by jake |
| A young nigga try ta fly capes, and get caught on the FBI tape |
| In verse of the State |
| Lost the case and gotta fry date |
| Ninety ninety eight, day of July eighth |
| Some cats get ta stack the hot papes |
| Live in the skyscrapes |
| Go ta airline, buy flyin' states |
| Where they can hibernate and operate |
| Impregnate, so ??? |
| Other niggas will lay the power race, wit tre 8's |
| Try to apply weight, and ready ta die staced off and dehydrate |
| Cannon fire light up the town |
| I stand my ground and hold the fort down wit the forty pound |
| You bust a round, I bust a round and lay your shorty down |
| On enemy territory grounds ta fall me down |
| Son how that sound? |
| Cannon fire light up the town |
| I stand my ground and hold the fort down wit the forty pound |
| You bust a round, I bust a round and lay your shorty down |
| On enemy territory grounds ta fall me down |
| Son how that sound? |
| It’s like a time bomb you hit Vietnam ta Saigon |
| Keep your mind calm, your nine on, me hard ta find harm |
| Peep the crime dons rollin' wit ex-cons holdin' they out rons |
| And teflons ta be streets flooded wit red ponds |
| Like it was red dawn, bodies get found around without the heads on |
| Judges set bonds that figures they know niggas is dead on |
| What’s left of death penalty facilities where niggas step on |
| Wit those that blew trough, go get they body filled wit electrons |
| The tec drawns, the ones that live foul, they’re leavin' wet moms |
| Wit lead charms, put her ta bed wit her head drawn |
| Killas wit red palms leavin' bodies cool as the dead fawns |
| Caught in the dead wrong, found they way, ran into the feds arms |
| Yo |
| Cannon fire light up the town |
| I stand my ground and hold the fort down wit the forty pound |
| You bust a round, I bust a round and lay your shorty down |
| On enemy territory grounds ta fall me down |
| Son how that sound? |
| Cannon fire light up the town |
| I stand my ground and hold the fort down wit the forty pound |
| You bust a round, I bust a round and lay your shorty down |
| On enemy territory grounds ta fall me down |
| Son how that sound? |
| For steady cash flows, niggas’ll blast you past the Astros |
| Blow you like afros, the little fast hoes that last all the fast dough |
| They splash foes, red as Tabasco, they lay your asshole where the grass grow |
| Runnin' wit armies like they Castro |
| Them Donny Brasco’s get Johnny Doj around they last holes |
| Keepin' em half froze, put in shiny boxes rockin' they last clothes |
| The cash close inside your top pocket of stashed roast |
| Body got found down on the back roads where all the trash blows |
| And broken glass globes, the dip chicks slicker than gastro |
| Who bag a slash blow and spot some top of the block hot as a gas stove |
| That’s Mastro’s cats in the Astros |
| Who ain’t afraid ta let they gats go |
| The paper dash bros lovin' the flash though |
| And pass mo' |
| Stash rolls, count em like math pros |
| And crash low soda, PoPo’s don’t step all up in they path yo |
| Them cats go, that’s smack on the back burner, but keepin' the gas low |
| When task rolls they snatch his ass mows, movin' too ass slow |