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These ideas are nightmares for white parents, whose worst fear is a child with
dyed hair and who likes earrings/Like whatever they say has no bearing, it's so
scary in a house that allows no swearing/to see him walking around with his
headphones blaring, alone in his own zone, cold and he don't care/He's a problem
child, and what bothers him all comes out, when he talks about, his fuckin' dad
walkin' out/cuz he just hates him so bad that he blocks him out. If he ever saw
him again he'd probably knock him out/His thoughts are wacked, he's mad so he's
talkin' back, talkin' black, brainwashed from rock and rap/He sags his pants,
do-rags and a stocking cap, his step-father hit him, so he socked him back/and
broke his nose, his house is a broken home. There's no control, he just let's
his emotions go...
C'mon! Sing with me (Sing!)/Sing for the year (Sing It)/Sing for the laughter/
sing for the tear (C'mon!) / Sing it with me/Just for today/Maybe tomorrow/The
good Lord will take you away...
Entertainment is changin', intertwinin' with gangstas, in the land of the
killers, a sinner's mind is a sanctum/ unholy, only have one homie, only this
gun, lonely cuz don't anyone know me/Yet everybody just feels like they can
relate, I guess words are a mothafucka they can be great/ or they can degrate,
or even worse they can teach hate/It's like these kids hang on every single
statement we make, like they worship us/plus all the stores ship us platinum,
now how the fuck did this metamorphosis happen?/ From standin' on corners and
porches just rappin'; to havin' a fortune, no more kissin' ass/But then these
critics crucify you, journalists try to burn you, fans turn on you, attorneys
all want a turn at you/To get they hands on every dime you have, they want you
to lose your mind every time you mad/So they can try to make you out to look
like a loose cannon. Any dispute won't hesitate to produce handguns/That's why
these prosecutors wanna convict me, strictly just to get me off of these streets
quickly/But all they kids be listenin' to me religiously, so I'm signin' CDs
while police fingerprint me/They're for the judge's daughter but his grudge is
against me. If I'm such a fuckin' menace, this shit doesn't make sense B/It's
all political, if my music is literal, and I'm a criminal how the fuck can I
raise a little girl?/I couldn't. I wouldn't be fit to. You're full of shit too,
Guerrera, that was a fist that hit you!
They say music can alter moods and talk to you, well can it load a gun up for
you , and cock it too?/Well if it can, then the next time you assault a dude,
just tell the judge it was my fault and I'll get sued/See what these kids do is
hear about us totin' pistols and they want to get one cuz they think the shit's
cool/not knowin' we really just protectin' ourselves, we entertainers, of course
the shit's affectin' our sales, you ignoramus/But music is reflection of self,
we just explain it, and then we get our checks in the mail. It's fucked up ain't
it?/ How we can come from practically nothing to being able to have any fuckin'
thing that we wanted/That's why we sing for these kids, who don't have a thing
except for a dream, and a fuckin' rap magazine/who post pin-up pictures on they
walls all day long, idolize they favorite rappers and know all they songs/Or for
anyone who's ever been through shit in their lives, till they sit and they cry
at night wishin' they'd die/Till they throw on a rap record and they sit, and
they vibe. We're nothin' to you but we're the fuckin' shit in they eyes/that's
why we seize the moment try to freeze it and own it, squeeze it and hold it, cuz
we consider these minutes golden/and maybe they'll admit it when we're gone.
Just let our spirits live on, through our lyrics that you hear in our songs and
Go back to "The Lyric Archive"