Text: Solomon Childs. Funeral Talk (The Eulogy). My Prerogative.

[Intro: Solomon Childs]
Word? Come on, man
This is it.. this for the thugs..
Yeah... you know?
Like I hold New York, I got nothing but ransom
I'm in it for the takeover, you feel me? Listen

[Solomon Childs]
This for niggaz round the way still pushing cookies
The World of Shaolin, Ken Griffey at the plate, rookie
You niggaz hood rat pussy, pardon me, Allah
Shit, I'm still in the struggle, my team known
For holding nine milli', gettin' round the way millies
Octopuss, gambling in the state New York
Daddy old school, son, hold my dick when I walk
And I cram to understand, why brothers, don't be maxing
You two thousand niggaz is lucky, '89 stick-up niggaz
Started relaxing, code of the streets
Winter time, North Faces silent with the Smith & Wesson
I'm taught, no more adolescents, this is how the hood sound
When we cry, a wise God told me
Milk slows down the high, bull room therapy
We locked in, I drop songs, that keep thugs guns coughing
If we was mobsters, you'd be the one getting hit up
If we was pitbulls, you'd be the one getting bit up
Bitch, you'd get smacked up, for being out of line, kid
We left 'em blinded, fuck a rap deal, forever be criminal minded
Living my life, ya'll talk what ya wanna talk, I'mma live my life

[Chorus: Solomon Childs]
Everybody talking, all the stuff about me
Why can't they just let me live?
I don't need permission, make my own decisions
That's my prerogative

[Solomon Childs]
This is real life, I'm giving New York, my real life
I got guns that split kitchen
Got more coke head friends than Todd Bridges
This for the holes in my momma's socks
Listen, this rap shit don't work
I'mma return to criminal plots
This is tug-of-war, I hope the time stop
This be the 25 to life in Comstock
Four kids, who try'nna die broke?
I'd rather see the gunsmoke, you jealous bitches
This is ghetto life, who try'nna play me?
Rhymes will put you on the block with me
You can't hear I'm hungry, the motto's, by another means necessary
You get the money, and not for nothing
My baby mother's, think I'm some kinda dummy
Like I'mma blow a nigga, get half of some kinda money
That's right, it's all about me

[Chorus]

[Outro: Solomon Childs]
This is what a thug about...
My hood... Body Brighton
Yeah...