(feat. Mr. Doctor)



[Brotha Lynch]

Yeah I could load a 9 up everyday, but why

My locc's told me homie make them tapes

And keep that 24 block alive

But if I feel I'm in need, I got's to ride

Carry a 9 for straight business, not just a side

Man it's the night-mare, creepin up in the cut

I'm hittin dice games, barbeques, no matter what

The things I've seen'll make ya throw up

Flaunt your flag, shoot your gats, hit your dank

Where I'm from that's how ya grow up

Man it's that wicked and 9 millimeter

Carrier bein stereo-typed daily

Ya got's to feel me, foo it's that baby

Killas run around everyday that's why I'm strapped

Ya heard it I got my own back-fade

Out into the 'lac and hit the city of Sac

Them homies given me that

But you got them fools that want a foe then

They wonderin why I'm carryin me a 12 gauge pump

Man I ain't no punk

The average everyday thug that's how it sounds

I'm defendin myself, and loadin that mili

And leaving em layin



[Chorus x4]

Deep down, there's a place for hope



[Mr. Doctor]

I guess it's hard to explain why I'm feelin how I'm feelin

I guess I'm feelin sorrow cus my homies got some stealin

And foos would say that it's my fault I bet

See cus I wasn't strapped yo, but I can't fuck my set

How could I know that them foos would blast?

Later on, on my folks

It's funny how this bangin's got its different strokes

I think about my loccs and how they made it

Though I'm stressin from the fact

They gotta suffer from a bullet hole

And Mr. Doctor just don't have hope locc

It's only been a month, since my last down partner got smoked

And rivals is deep, up in my city foo

Since I'm on the underground team, I can't have no peace

My life is tore up so I guess I'm stuck

Yeah, I got my St. Ides, I'm turnin it up

To get drunk, then I post up on the street

While I say to myself, for the block

Homie rest in peace



[Chorus x4]



[Brotha Lynch]

They say that ain't the way to handle that type funk

But now I'm loadin up the strap, smokin on that blunt

Just cus the Brotha Hung is flag-up

What that mean, I can't ride?

Why G's up in my face, I'm bout to help them ride

I keep a low pro, drink the 4-0

And lounge until it's time to go

Shinin up the forty-fo

Rollin up the boogey-boo, indo

And hopin if I should die, before I'm high

That they bury me in 50 pounds of chocolate thai

I got them homies from the south-side givin it up and

Them homies from the east-side slangin that stuff and

I'm right up in the middle tryin to hang on and

Tryin not to end up like them niggas doin time in the pen

But then again

I'm down for when the homies is ready to roll em up

You know, stick in a dark-blue cut

And as I'm creepin through ya set

Trip, don't get caught up, shot up

The gardenblock locc's, man we leave em layin



[Chorus x4]