|Public Service Announcement. [Urbanised.]|
He uses the red bandana to catch all the drips,
split his lip and smashed his car all to shit.
He won't have it,
the shoe simply does not fit;
he must forget,
he knows, and with indignation he spits.
He hates it, remembers after they jumped him in,
washing down his past with a fat blunt and some gin.
He's a hardcore nigga, though he's fucked up, he grins.
He knows them fuckin' Crips are gonna need plastic chins.
He can't get out, his options are all fuckin' shot.
He's been assigned to an overly active spot.
He creeps the plot,
the blood on his face starts to clot
with all the spite and anger he wishes that he could not
have to deal with, let it go and leave the damn place.
But he's smarter than that; his deserted broes will be on his case.
Like fingers on rectangle tables he'll trace;
the lot armed with nothing but a knife and some mace.
He knows that right now he's secure,
they're done bustin' his face.
And his buddies are on the way;
there are some Crips to chase.
It's gang violence,
these motherfuckers keep their pistols silenced.
A cap busts but cops know not to even try it.
on the streets, but this shit ain't a riot.
it's life, believe or deny it.
You try it,
wearin' flags with your brothers,
hanging out with kids who do not know their own mothers.
Your calm is gone early,
bitch you can't quite rely purely
This your own fight,
your own motherfuckin' curb to bite.
It isn't quite
the heaven that these fuckin' impressionable kids might
sign up for,
takin' hits to try to not be poor.
They hate your
smug satisfaction and gang lore.
But they need protection, and
niggas offer more
in big groups wild with hate
armed with Tech-9's and smooth-bore.
This isn't somethin' they preach about
at school convetions,
nah, bitches don't want to bring attention
to the problems they forgot to mention
'til they had to expand facilities for juvenile detention.
This is the jungle, nigga, don't you be expectin' a pension.
You gotta work for every cent,
like a fuckin' collection
of rare art, a Renaissance fuckin' recollection
of the memories that anthropologists are inspectin'.
Tryin', not gettin',
anywhere with their lessons.
There's a characteristic that the O.G.'s will demand,
the capability to be that single man
to sit directly beside the ruler's right hand.
And take a stand,
deal out justice, reprimand.
But the leadership's fucked up, the principle gone.
Ask Tookie's ghost to see what the fuck's goin' on.
He'll tell you that all his ideas went wrong
in the hands of the corrupt; that's why I'm spittin' this song.
Niggas ask why we can't all just get along.
You fuckin' kidding? This shit is like Vietnam.
Guerrilla warfare, the Neo-fuckin'-Vietcong,
and you fuckers have the gall to ask us what is wrong.
But a real motherfucker like me doesn't quit;
to give in to this ridiculous wanker bullshit
would make me little more than a wannabe bitch.
From where I sit,
these issues are far more important
than spittin' rhymes about drinks, blunts, and big-ass tits.
Niggas wasted in the streets, you seem to forget
that your people are dyin' every goddamn minute.
And if you motherfuckers think that I don't give a shit,
crank up your hearing aids just a little bit.
And listen just a little closer
to the words that I spit.
Remember me and my message;
you better believe it.
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