street shit - boldy james lyrics
[intro]
[?], where we at with it?
shout out the real bad man
let’s get it
[verse 1]
can’t even feel my fingertips, the blow been on my hands
ain’t even have to leave the city, sold 300 grams
remember packin’ up an ounce, couldn’t touch a tan
but now they gotta cut it all to even cut me in
at my junkie house, auntie tryna stuff a stem
on the wheel with the twins and my brother’s schwinn
i sold a brick, was short a o, he didn’t wanna spend
they gave my dawg a quarter roll, he took it on the chin
they wasn’t with me, i was shootin’ in that open gym
a n*gga really in that field, this ain’t no pretend
took a risk with my life, i just wanna win
drunk a 6 out the pint, but i sold a 10
steady knockin’ heads down like some bowling pins
out in st. paul with the minnesota twins
could shake a bag in the city, might hit the road, depends
had to remix a half*block just to roll a benz
[chorus]
you never seen a blow syringe or a fiend sick?
or seen what a junkie’ll do to get a clean hit?
before i learned to hit the work, i had a mean wrist
that sh*t’ll turn a good girl into a mean b*tch
bottles of cane breaking spliffs like my english
all of my pain tailor*fit from the seamstress
taught he was illy ’till i hit him with the remix
that’s how i know n*ggas ain’t really on no street sh*t
[verse 2]
i’m at the station, sweatin’ bullets, leavin’ washington
talkin’ seattle, not d.c., know we the mafia
product of the pavement from charlotte till [?]
hoppin’ out the iron maiden down in baltimore with raven
ar on the backseat, got it folded in a blanket
n*gga try stop me from eatin’, we gon’ roast him at the banquet
toastin’ to the gangstas, never spoke a word of statement
streetsweepin’ with that mossberg, custodian for maintenance
feds buildin’ cases, n*ggas fallin’, n*ggas breakin’
tripped ’em up like a crossword, they roll ’em in from adrian
got in trouble once with the coca out in dayton
so he gave his plug up, down in boco with the haitians
no remote location and your homie gon’ be waitin’
we gon’ sn*tch his little brother up and throw him in the bas*m*nt
[?], used to post up in them vacants
put the wrong mix on the blow, the sh*t too strong, got ’em faintin’
[chorus]
you never seen a blow syringe or a fiend sick?
or seen what a junkie’ll do to get a clean hit?
before i learned to hit the work, i had a mean wrist
that sh*t’ll turn a good girl into a mean b*tch
bottles of cane breaking spliffs like my english
all of my pain tailor*fit from the seamstress
taught he was illy ’till i hit him with the remix
that’s how i know n*ggas ain’t really on no street sh*t
that’s how i know n*ggas ain’t really on no street sh*t
that’s how i know n*ggas ain’t really on no street sh*t
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