Six in the morning, police at my door
Fresh Adidas squeak across the bathroom floor
Out my back window I make my escape
Didn't even get a chance to grab my old school tape
Mad with no music, but happy 'cause free
And the streets to a player is the place to be
Got a knot in my pocket weighing at least a grand
Gold on my neck, my pistol's close at hand
I'm a self-made monster of the city streets
Remotely controlled by hard hip-hop beats
But just living in the city is a serious task
Didn't know what the pigs wanted, didn't have time to ask
Word, word, word
Seen my homeboys cooling way, way out
Told 'em 'bout my morning, cold bugged 'em out
Shot a little dice 'tll my knees got sore
Kicked around some stories 'bout the night before
Posse to the corner where the fly girls chill
Threw action at some freaks 'til one bitch got ill
She started acting stupid, simply would not quit
Called us all punk pussies, said we all weren't shit
As we walked over to her, ho continued to speak
So we beat the bitch down in the goddamn street
Just living in the city is a serious task
Bitch didn't know what hit her, didn't have time to ask
Word, word, word
Continued clocking freaks with immense posteriors
Rolling in a Blazer with a Louis interior
Solid gold, the ride was raw
Bust a left turn, was on Crenshaw
Sean-e-Sean was the driver, known to give freaks hell
Had a beeper goin' off like a high school bell
Looked in the mirror, what did we see?
Fucking blue lights, L.A.P.D
Pigs searched our car, their day was made
Found an Uzi, .44 and a hand grenade
Threw us in the county high-power block
No freaks to see, no beats to rock
Didn't want trouble but the shit must fly
Squabbled with the sucker, shanked 'em in the eye
Just living in the county is a serious task
Nigga didn't know what hit him, didn't have time to ask
Word, word, word
Back on the streets after five and a deuce
Seven years later, but still had the juice
My homeboy Hen Gee put me up on the track
Told me E's rolling Villain, BJ's got the sack
Bruce is a giant, Nat C's clocking dough
Be-Bop's a pimp, my old freak's a ho
The batter rams rolling, rocks are the thing
Life has no meaning and money is king
Then he looked at me slowly and Hen had to grin
He said, "Man, you out early, we thought you got ten"
Opened his safe, kicked me down with long cash
Knew I would get busy, he didn't waste time to ask
I bought a Benz with the money, the rest went on clothes
Went to the strip, started pimping the hoes
My hair had grew long on my seven year stay
When I got it done, on my shoulders it lay
Hard from the joint, but fly to my heart
I didn't want trouble, but the shit had to start
Out with my crew, some punks got loud
Shotgun blasts echoed through the crowd
Six punks hit, two punks died
All casualties were applied to their side
Human lives had to pass just for talking much trash
We didn't know who they were, no one had time to ask
Word, word, word, word, word
compositores: Charles Glenn, Tracy Marrow
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