seven months into the game, holdin hate for the morbid pain.
its diffucult to hit a dry spell when the hood is pourin rain.
felt my lowest low, knowin i cook rock for this russian.
but packin up and cashin in was not up for discussion.
the block tells stories of harlem kids, gettin mugged & jacked.
if theres a key principle to hustle, its that the game dont love you back.
ya think you a big man, until the game controls you like quick sand.
and wen shit hits the fan, ya in so deep you cant quit man.
theres moments of escape, wen you sneak off to blaze a bowl.
but dead or alive, the greedy always wanna be paid in full.
and the game is cool, but dont believe everything you asked about.
and trust nobody, cause even ya bestfriend starts to rat you out.
its every man for himself in riches, to greed its natural.
and after all, who wants to die for somthin that aint practical.
all is well in love and war, but the drug cartel dont apply.
and one night wen ya girl expects you home, you wont arrive.
after cremation, they gonna spur ya ashes like rezin in bong seasons.
family left with code red & ya soul floats to heaven for wrong reasons.