This is goin' out to the youngstas
 The nappy headed gappy little rumblas
 The ones robbin' stores and them banks and shit
 Wit the tec 9 gats and them xtra clips
 The ones wit the glocks  the ones wit the 45's
 Runnin' 'round the streets doin' homicide
 So peep game from ya boy Bigga Figga
 And let me tell ya how the shit go

 1978
 A young nigga born  growin' up around the way
 Born without a daddy shot in the proces
 Vietnam war, cause he didn't wear a vest
 Moms was broke, no money in the bank
 Cause when they was young they used to smoke a lotta dank
 Been graduated to the dope and the booze
 Couldn't afford milk, couldn't afford shoes
 Livin' in the projects not tryin' to get out
 Wellfare is poppin' and she's tryin' to find a spout
 Son coming up and seeing this shit
 No time for school cause he gotta pull a lick
 By this time he did to my click
 Tomorrow is the first and they all wanna flip
 Red light bandit's caught red handed
 Now we in the hall when they left his butt stranded
 Councelor, councelor can I use the phone?
 Now he kinda scared and he wanna call home
 No type of guy that's in no type of teaches
 ... tried to warn him but she seems she couldn't reach her
 ...
 Goin' to the ramp, sorta like a summer camp
 In a few weeks he get a home-pass soon
 When he hit the streets man you know he gonna boom
 Moms can't tear him off nuttin' but a hug
 But a few close homies gonna show a little love
 A dub sack here and a dank sack there
 Who ever said that life was fair
 Now he got a warrant cause he didn't wanna go back
 P.O. ain't shit and he ain't cuttin' no slack
 Now he on the streets and he can't be slippin'
 Cause at the hall we got a y.a. commitment
 It ain't gettin' better it's only gettin' worse
 I stroke a bad luck, better yet a bad curse
 The system is set for us to straight failures
 Ask the O.G's any black man will tell ya
 On the way to comin' up, got about a G
 And about 2 O's two more will make a QP
 Gangstas watch ya back, homies gettin' down
 One more week he be on a half a pound
 That's half of a half of a cake ya know
 Gettin' so large they need to call him Mr. Blow
 Or better yet, call a nigga Mr. B12
 Gettin' clientele for makin' the shit swell
 Cause back on the street there's a drought on the shit
 Got to make some money, so it's time for a lick
 Watchin' out for the neighbourhood baller, a little bit taller
 Then the next nigga tryin' to pull a motherfuckin' trigga
 Plottin', scheming, waitin' for the beamer
 To pull up so he can run up and put the gun up
 To the dome, so we can get the cash flow
 But little did he know that the baller was a pro
 And waitin' for jackers and all type of niggas
 Wit automatic trigger just waitin' to give a
 Rat-tat-tat and a pop-pop at a young buck
 Now he stuck and they couldn't give a motherfuck

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