Chorus:

This is goin' out to the youngstas

The nappy headed gappy little rumblas

The ones robbin' stores and them banks and shit

Wit the tec 9 gats and them xtra clips

The ones wit the glocks the ones wit the 45's

Runnin' 'round the streets doin' homicide

So peep game from ya boy Bigga Figga

And let me tell ya how the shit go



1978

A young nigga born growin' up around the way

Born without a daddy shot in the proces

Vietnam war, cause he didn't wear a vest

Moms was broke, no money in the bank

Cause when they was young they used to smoke a lotta dank

Been graduated to the dope and the booze

Couldn't afford milk, couldn't afford shoes

Livin' in the projects not tryin' to get out

Wellfare is poppin' and she's tryin' to find a spout

Son coming up and seeing this shit

No time for school cause he gotta pull a lick

By this time he did to my click

Tomorrow is the first and they all wanna flip

Red light bandit's caught red handed

Now we in the hall when they left his butt stranded

Councelor, councelor can I use the phone?

Now he kinda scared and he wanna call home

No type of guy that's in no type of teaches

... tried to warn him but she seems she couldn't reach her

...

Goin' to the ramp, sorta like a summer camp

In a few weeks he get a home-pass soon

When he hit the streets man you know he gonna boom

Moms can't tear him off nuttin' but a hug

But a few close homies gonna show a little love

A dub sack here and a dank sack there

Who ever said that life was fair

Now he got a warrant cause he didn't wanna go back

P.O. ain't shit and he ain't cuttin' no slack

Now he on the streets and he can't be slippin'

Cause at the hall we got a y.a. commitment

It ain't gettin' better it's only gettin' worse

I stroke a bad luck, better yet a bad curse

The system is set for us to straight failures

Ask the O.G's any black man will tell ya

On the way to comin' up, got about a G

And about 2 O's two more will make a QP

Gangstas watch ya back, homies gettin' down

One more week he be on a half a pound

That's half of a half of a cake ya know

Gettin' so large they need to call him Mr. Blow

Or better yet, call a nigga Mr. B12

Gettin' clientele for makin' the shit swell

Cause back on the street there's a drought on the shit

Got to make some money, so it's time for a lick

Watchin' out for the neighbourhood baller, a little bit taller

Then the next nigga tryin' to pull a motherfuckin' trigga

Plottin', scheming, waitin' for the beamer

To pull up so he can run up and put the gun up

To the dome, so we can get the cash flow

But little did he know that the baller was a pro

And waitin' for jackers and all type of niggas

Wit automatic trigger just waitin' to give a

Rat-tat-tat and a pop-pop at a young buck

Now he stuck and they couldn't give a motherfuck



Chorus