call me malik yoba ill leave in you in new york under a cover/
for a gold chain my niggas kill your son or your brother/
one or the other, youll be makin funeral arrangements/
where half the niggas'll leave the funeral for arraignments/
where court cases/
often lead to car chases/
and like a minimum wage salary for mom its hard to raise us/
where everybody play the lotto in hopes of street dreaming/
where you get out on bail head home and you still scheming/
where your brothers are your role models/
niggas look like babies the way they hold bottles/
rob crackers that drive the new ones while we still drivin the old models/
where the corner store is a stash box/
where we hold packs and glocks/
and the only thing we leave with is a bag of rocks/
im from a place where your down as bitch probably did a bid/
and if she didnt she held you down when you did/
was there when you got back/
was there when you got bagged/
same bitch that picked you up off the ground when you got stabbed/
where you support your mom and she dont support what you do/
but she make sure that when you go to court you got shoes/
cries in the court room to make sure you dont lose/
where the only charges that stick are the ones you dont do/
and the only lights you see are the ones you go through/
where the hustlers on the block come through on dirtbikes/
but get bagged for transportin on the jersey turnpike/
where your long term goals are to make it as a rapper/
your girl didnt believe in your dreams thats your only reason to smack her/
where old men are your customers and you dont have a business/
and the only way to get away is to get rid of the witness/
where your number is unlisted but everybody know your cell/
and the only drought you know is when your coke dont sell