Street's Disciple

Yeah, yeah, yeah You was born in the eighties, pops drove a Mercedes Did a bid, coming home to some grown ass kid Crack baby turn to young thug, description might fit you Look around it might hit you No joke, I wanna pistol fight with you Shit comes around faster than you think Blood and white chalk makes pink, so what's that make you? Become a creature of habitat, the average cat Won't see where it's at, or where it's going The hood waits for no one I've been through it from Ewings to Buicks, to body viewings Car chases to court cases, to fly vacations From wanting it all, to being the object of your admiration Imagination is what they lack It stops niggaz from getting stacks Feeling trapped on the block with loose cracks Wisdom is vital for the survival of the street's disciple "From the day you were born" (Olu Daru sample) "Starring out, a young disciple" (Nas Sample) "You had that gleam in your eye" (Olu Daru sample) Disciple of the projects! "From the day you were born" (Olu Daru sample) "Street's Disciple" (Nas Sample) "Disciple of the projects" (Olu Daru sample) Moonstruck stuck, slow as molasses in my actions That's compliments of a fast spliff in the night life In my flight jacket, adrenaline heightened, mimickin Tyson After watchin him cut up Razor Ruddock In the gutter, which was once ghetto prophecy is now ghetto scripture Lookin back at it, blowjobs from pretty crack addicts Older Gods wantin no static, told some lil' niggaz they can have it Coke baggin and toe-taggin They took Will, let me describe him, a live one I think that he was the true +God's Son+ - not Jesus, but fearless His ear was up on them sounds too, he'd hear somethin Not to his likin, and say 'Son they bitin you" He never got to see my debut, wild-mannered But wild with them hammers, niggaz frontin couldn't stand it Took him off the planet, left us in 9-2 With the philosophy of what arms do, a true street's disciple Plug the mics up, I'm ready to rock, knocking Reminiscing of measuring pots of Pyrex, cook in the kitchen Captain to these infants It's like my folks is still on the benches Surrounded by villains and henchmen, was a killer convention 1991, son, gold fronts on the facial, gun buck by the naval Disciple could blaze you, we laced it with embalming fluid Rhyming to music all this time Fighting 'bout how Kane and Rakim would do it Seemed impossible to us that we could ever leave From the block, where the world was forever freezing Hell if I ever let them shovel me, son, in this cell again Fuck these devil policemen, plush leathers, I need them Risking my freedom, burners in bubble coats Fuck a sermon from the neighborhood pope He's sexing ho's, old fart, he's busting ones when he stroke Multi-colored Pelle Pelle's, young stretch mark bellies Babies born in a cycle, future disciples