Text:
Scars On 45 Don T Say

little man, show me Clutching on his momma leg, remind me of the old me Ain't trippin' off no old beefs, ain't grinding on my old streets I'm in the hills smoking on

program, hit the streetz we cop 56 mo gramz Y'all niggaz ain't messin wit scrams And that's [Drag-On] (come on, come on, come on,) Boy, whats the difference

nervous system still twitch on days; these ho's and animals ?'s get merked don't ever let a nigga tell you slugs don't hurt don't ever let a nigga tell

safe to say, I don't think, you'll be jumpin' around anymore Yo, this can't happen to me, I just can't believe it Trapped in a wheelchair, a paraplegic There ain't

human that ever breathes . . . Hold it on! Hold it on! Hold it on! Hold it on against them! Hold it on! Hold it on! Though Hitler died in '45, and they say

need a 45 when your mind is a weapon If you use it like you 'posed to than you could be Malcolm X Instead of counting body bags, my n-gga should be counting checks Don't

Doctor: "Well, suffice I have to say to say I don't think you'll be jumpin' around any more.") Yo! This can't happen to me! I just can't believe it!

fuckas tryina clean hip-hop, but it don't stop, like L.A grid Lock If you get popped, your shit will stop Clostamy bags, for all these fags, I don't wanna

little man, show me Clutching on his momma leg, remind me of the old me Ain't trippin' off no old beefs, ain't grinding on my old streets I'm in the hills smoking on