Now everything ain’t all good, I’m still in the gutter;
Sixth floor, project door, livin’ with my mother ;
Two years ago my homie died, he could’ve been my brother;
Shotgun wound in the chest from some Dominican Fucka;
Cash is low, see I don’t wanna sell crack ;
The time is long, it’s hard to get your bail back ;
I took the city job test, but I failed that;
I breathe in disappointment, exhale rap ;
My pen became my best friend, as the only child;
And I ain’t have an outfit on Easter to go to Coney Island;
Older dudes had jokes,
Fiends was getting high in the lobby, I used to walk thru that smoke;
Shittin’ on my third toilet, I had two that broke;
The tub had the filthiest soap dish with that new as soap;
Moms cried, I used to tell her “don’t do that yo,”
We gon’ be good, your boy working on a new rap flow;
Here I am, Joell Ortiz, in the flesh and yes,
There will come a time when rhymes get me fresh to def,
But I can’t forget my welfare, never sent the check,
They sent the letter to money for back rent was kept,
Send us on our merry way with a couple of stamps,
Moms used try to hide a little under the lamp,
Don’t ask me what I’m heated for,
Moms did what she did, I mean it is what it is, but I needed more….

Shots getting exchanged,
Pots hitting the flames,
A glock clickin’ with rage,
A cop hit with a guage,
Some guys live to get paid,
They try different with trades,
Applied ignorant ways,
Then lie stiff in the grave,
Them Stuy niggas insane,
They stop him on the train,
Rob him for his chain,
Then pop six in his waves,
Them broads looking for cain,
And ya’ll trickin for change,
Ahh shit it’s a shame,
Who gon’ stick with the blade,
Slob dick and behave,
Where all images strange,
They harsh trickin with pain,
They walk sick with the plague,
Abolishin the grade,
Then pop shit and complain,
The more niggas get laid,
The more syphilis and aids,
Pawnin they kids jewelry, get high sniffin for days,
A mother watched in the pawnshop getting appraised,
The projects is a maze
The hardship of the brave,
The jobs minimum wage,
We all livin as slaves,
The object of the game,
Is not to just get fame,
Do not listen to lames,
They mind trickin your brai,n
The convicts is arraigned,
The god sit in the cage,
And maids work in the sun, the cops sits in the shade,
My sidekick get a page,
You dry snitches on stage,
I cross bridges with blaze,
And carve stitches I bang,
I went to Coney Island with arms grippin them thangs,
Allah scriptures get praised,
While ya’ll wiggas afraid!

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