Angel Tears - 4th Disciple, Hell Razah

«Rock that shit homey" — sample

2003, yeah, «yeah, why’all', it’s on now

It’s bout to go down, 20−03, no doubt

G.G.O., get your coats

On the dirty blocks of Red Hook, we learned to get our first checkbook

Be a crook, let the cocaine cook

Little brothers turn to workers, cops draw guns

So they search us, and question us about the murders

Until they figure, why, God cursed us

And that this wicked world was never worth us

We show respect, to the ones who birthed us

Took care of us, on welfare, we gold now, belchin' from beers

Smoke weed in the project stairs

Half my peers, got hit with like, fifteen years

And the age we was at, was like, sixteen years

Grades was callin', hopin' if the slay’s was fallin'

Has the ghetto take the lives of those, made for ballin'

Layin' in coffins, cries to the church organ

Some will hustle 'til six in the morning

Just for the fortune, for a new whip, invented for flossin'

Cop the Benz, from the auto auction

We broke his window with a piece of porcelein

Stay strapped for them jealousy cats

Lay they heads, same place they do they felonies at

You ain’t the only one who sell crack, and got gats

Alotta niggaz got that, some left with death and never got back

Some will cock back, and pop that, so pop shit without that

Be careful what you follow if you ain’t about that

«We lookin' at the words that you dealin' with remember

The beginning was the word… the beginninning of your illusion

Is based upon, the construct of land, and how language is used

Or misused, and how you are ignorant, to how a language is used»

Age of 12, I played with them brothers in hell

Only role models that I had, was dead or in jail

Crack sales make a black male, want to be twelve

Six hundred Benz, shittin' with a hot female

All I want to do is make records, and pay my bills

Why I gotta be a hater, 'coz I say what I feel?

I say a prayer than I aim, before I can wave at will

You gonna make me want to kill, why’all delay why’all deal

Hurry up, and get them contracts, that’s for real

Or I’mma have to pull out thirty eight, stainless steel

4th Disciple cook a beat up, and watch you spill

Hot lava, my throat burn, like straight shots of vodka

Ready to ride, like Big Poppa, I put the curse on witchdoctor

It’s 2G, you better spit proper, and I don’t care if your shit is Prada

You make no sense to this big dollar,

I want the cash money, fuck an Oscar