My window faces shootouts, drug overdoses. Live amongst no roses, Only the drama. Peoples are petro. My pen taps the paper then my brain's blank. I see dark streets, hustlin' brothas who keep the same rank.
Judges hangin' niggas, uncorrect bails for direct sales.
Word to Christ, the disciple of streets, trifle on beats, I decipher prophecies through a mic and say peace. I hung around the older crews while they slinged smack to dingbats. They spoke of Fat Cat, that nigga's name a bell rings, black. Some fiends screamed about Supreme Team, A Jamaica Queens thing. Uptown was Alpo, son, heard he was kingpin.