da children know our future but if u don't rise them right they'll grow up and shoot cha (Trick Daddy Talking) you know?All dat walking Martin Luther
my thang Got a house on the lake I built from cake Cooking pies and hustling for rubian flakes I put dub deuces on the Avalanche truck I break rules cause I don
you had soul mates, I had cell mates But now I've been in the same three hummers For the same three summers And dice love me They stay on the same three
dont do that cuz that shitll get you slapped shitll get you slapped from a petty larcenist to armed robber its the yardfather i aint jamaican but label me as the don
piss You down wit this nigga, you done killed his brotha But dog, don't think he don't know it Think he a sucker 'cause he don't show it Paybacks a muthafucka
say"Jigga can't go back home" You know when I heard that when I was back home I'm comfortable dog Brooklyn to Rome On any Martin Luther don't part with your future Don
and don't try to follow 'Cause just like Waco, I can take fo' ATF to they death Bust a left on Western, go and get a room Don't want to be a felon like
hang cos I don't hang with no bustas, I don't hang with no fags I don't hang with no connivin' ass niggas who ain't out there makin' cash Sho nuff don
a skunk Don't hurt me none, don't hurt my pride 'Cause I got my little lady right by my side She's a tryin' a hide pretendin' she don't know me I's out
the half-finished painting of a girl that I started last December Here's the first three pages of my novel bout I don't really remember Here's my Martin
do do do, do do do do, do do do, do do do do Hearts can break just like a string Old guitars can't fix a string I Put that Martin in it's case With the
, he had on too much gray Ray had a Strawberry sister named Daiquiri Johnnie politely her ass behind the back three Now all four uncles E&J wanna tossi Martini
Realist shit I ever wrote, chillin' in my Maybach Whatever I send out, homie, I'ma make back Can you believe that? Woah you gotta see it I don't plan
human being, pussy for lunch Pop all the balloons and spit in the punch, yeah Kush in the blunts I ride through your block, see a foot in the trunk I don
(I play the street life Because theres no place I can go street life its the only life I know) Come home and your daddy go to work(go to work) Three
, one classic, now homie, OG too, I toast a chronic blunt everytime I see Snoop, Aston Martin Driver, gave away the B(entley) Coupe, cried for three days
-load of fat woman on the way to see the Ricky Martin, I tell you what, I was... A-ha-ha. That's pretty happy right there, now. Haha-ha. I don't care
And fuck them three fellas down with bbd? Remember mike bivins, abc They had more than three But if they cut a few Would they fuck them three girls