| And yo I can’t cry over spit milk |
| They said «Free the boy Slim, he’s the real deal» |
| Yeah, I used to run off with packs and tell em' shit happens |
| Yo it’s kinda different when you’re raised by some kidnappers |
| I know a liar when I see one |
| Slim I’m just praying for a clean run, the truth is I need one |
| I’m getting tired of dodging jakes and switching phones |
| Once you get the bird or hit the run it starts hitting home |
| Like who loves you, who don’t? |
| Who will put in work and who won’t? |
| Shit tell me, I’m from a place yo where anything goes |
| Yeah he’s hard and he’s charting but he’s never did road |
| I can’t concern myself in business that ain’t mine |
| Been gangster getting 25, I tell you that ain’t life |
| I need to put myself first |
| I sit down and listen to advice cah' there’s lessons I ain’t learnt |
| And you could say that them old niggas turnt washed |
| The truth is they turnt off, they weren’t tryna get birded off |
| And who wants to take a risk? |
| If I never had music, I’d have came home to take a trip |
| Cause' I got hustle in my blood, hard graft in my DNA |
| And .32 autos in my gun, yeah |
| Man they say it’s all love but I don’t see you when I need you |
| So to me it’s all a front, yo |
| You never know how this shit turns out |
| I’ll leave the whip burnt out tryna pitch those clowns, yeah |
| You ever seen a leopard change spots? |
| Pushing crack out my driver side window like it ain’t hot |
| I’m sweating buckets in the winter like it ain’t cold |
| There ain’t a drug that I ain’t sold, yo |
| You ever been a young nigga that felt old? |
| Spent half a decade sitting in a cell but it ain’t home |
| And having money don’t make you gangster |
| I set it on that yute on camera, then done my bang up |
| They wanna talk about mental health |
| Yo them years in the cell definitely never helped |
| And yo I can’t dwell over past times about how I used to build hard lines |
| And turn my phone on about half five |
| Yo slip my sliders on, get my grinding on |
| And clear a couple grand by half nine |
| And this the life I live |
| And yo you ain’t no kind of man if you don’t stand by your kids |
| And you’d appreciate the hustle |
| And understand the struggle if you had to grind like this |
| And yo now that the summers done |
| Let’s see if these runners come |
| And get these phone lines ripping |
| And yo I could have come through in drip |
| But I came through blacked out gripping my stick |
| Looking like a villain, shit |
| They fascinated how I came up |
| Toothbrush melted to my razor |
| That’s ultimate danger, yeah |
| When I was young I chopped so many pebs up |
| It was time to be the man and I stepped up |
| Who’s tryna step out? .32 autos getting pressed out |
| Their raps and their facts don’t check out |
| Yeah, they’re saying real raps dead |
| I’ll go and put some music money into bricks and go flip my bread |
| Yo I’ll get rich or I’ll die trying |
| Or I’ll make a hit and I’ll die supplying |
| Feeling like Marlo in The Wire |
| Sending drivers with bricks in the tire |
| Then I’ll hit the strip myself in some different attire |
| As a kid I liked grinding in the cold weather |
| I cut a brick brick up, then cut a prick up with the same wetter |
| And I can tell you bout' what I was used to |
| Yo serving off a sofa, getting 30 for a 2-on-2 |
| And look, man I know how it goes |
| Every year, not back from parole and just living off hope |
| I came home and this year everybody’s getting rich |
| It’s either that or I live my life in and out the bin |