I’ve got ghetto dope in my veins, yellow gold on my chain
I’ve got ghetto dope in my veins, yellow gold on my chain
I’ve got ghetto dope in my veins, yellow gold on my chain
I fly in the Maserati like Melo, go through the lanes
I say “fuck these niggas and what they say”
I say “you don’t know me, you pretend to know me”
“Fuck these niggas and what they say”
“You don’t know me, you pretend to know me”
Alright then… alright then… alright then… huh?
[Wyclef]
Melo go through the lanes, me, man, I do the same
F1 McLaren with a seat in the middle, man
Raised with the Killa Cam while you playing Batman
Ain’t no super heros here, but they “X” men
Everybody looking for survival, so they hustle
The hand that holds the gun is the hand that rocks the cradle
[Los]
Born in the gutter, covered in struggle
Smothered in hustle
Where brothers hate you as much as you mother can love you
Motherfuckers’ll buck you over them greenbacks
If tracking cream’s the method, I’m Method over the C.R.E.A.M. track
It was shocking, they shot my father, the shackles on him
Was hoppin’ off him and on to me, as a prophet would call it
[Wyclef]
When I landed in the land of glory I was barely 10
I was raised in a hut with them barbarians
Burner in my bubble goose, shooting from the project roof
Papa was a preacher, I was Bishop, ’cause I had the Juice
Real talk, when I wrote ‘Gone ‘Til November’
It’s ’cause in Baltimore, they murdered my nigga in November
Alright then… alright then…
I’ve got ghetto dope in my veins, yellow gold on my chain
I fly in the Maserati like Melo, go through the lanes
I’ve got ghetto dope in my veins, yellow gold on my chain
I fly in the Maserati like Melo, go through the lanes
I say “fuck these niggas and what they say”
I say “you don’t know me, you pretend to know me”
“Fuck these niggas and what they say”
“You don’t know me, you pretend to know me”
Alright then… alright then… alright then… huh?
[Los]
It’s the author unorthodox off the docks in the water, no culture shock
You ain’t strapped, you a halter top
I hocked the top ’cause the bottom comin’
Got ‘em runnin’, call the cops
I’m calling shots like Tec whistles
Fuck you like group sex then text missiles
To be technical, ya’ll niggas is ho…
Ah, fuck ‘em, we flippin’ bundles, them bitches tumble like
Gold medal winners, gold metal in ‘em when we stretch ‘em
When we catch him it’s like he caught a cold
‘Cause he get a coffin, never speak on the code
Never geek on your niggas and never creep with a hoe
That be exactly how they’ll find you, just a creep in a hoe
My niggas quick to pull them heaters, leave you leaking for dough
I’ve got ghetto dope in my veins, yellow gold on my chain
I fly in the Maserati like Melo, go through the lanes
I’ve got ghetto dope in my veins, yellow gold on my chain
I fly in the Maserati like Melo, go through the lanes
[Wyclef]
Pour some liquor ’cause the good die young
Banana-clipped up, Mighty Joe Young
Welcome to the jungle where they treat us like we animals
Aye – the Bed-Stuy chronicles
“Murder, murder”
That’s what you hear when they pull up in the middle of the night
When they’re ready for the stick-up
Hiccup, hiccup, hiccup you ain’t ’bout the rubber grip
If you only had three, why would one be a death wish?
This is the truth and I’ve said this before
Whether I’m in Haiti or Baltimore
Import more shottas and run through your door
And leave your body laying on the floor
Out in the morgue they go through your organs
In the church they play the organ
…cry, cry, crow, crows fly
It’s 5 o’clock, do you know where your kids are at?
Have you been notified?
Alright then… alright then… alright then… huh?
Paroles2Chansons dispose d’un accord de licence de paroles de chansons avec la Société des Editeurs et Auteurs de Musique (SEAM)
