Texty: Hell Razah & 4th Disciple. Freedom Of Speech. Project Love.

[Intro: Hell Razah]
Pain, struggle, we gotta hold our head up, as a people
Youknowhatimsayin, we on a prowl
Can't forget the struggle, son, we all go through
G.G.O.

[Hell Razah]
This for the baby mothers, broken hearted
Five seeds in a one bedroom apartment
I feel the hunger of my brothers eatin' out the garbage
And all my locked up and dead baby fathers, over lady heartaches
We play with automatics and revolvers
I know chain robbers could of been Vince Carters
Can't ignore it, cuz the pain bother
Different book, but the same author
Recognize, we are the same father
We just try'nna feed our family tree, so our seeds be insanity free
Instead of locked up for scramblin' ki's
OG's comin' home, he had it sowned
But the corner payphone, in '89, but he stuck in that zone
Little Tasha, eight months, and got a baby by the neighborhood chump
Who'd rather smoke blunts, then bring home lunch
Young ones bustin' they guns with gemstars under they tongues
They got the fathers locked away from the sons

[Chorus: Hell Razah]
Every time I count money and I think about my dead homies
(It be that hood love, that keep me healthy)
Every time I read a jail letter, thinkin' it's gon' get better
(It be that hood love, that keep me healthy)
Every time I hear a seed dyin', more mothers cryin'
(It be that hood love, that keep me healthy)
It's nothin' like the hood...

[Hell Razah]
Drug shipments, welfare recipients worship Clinton
Meanwhile, we got no food in the kitchen
Grandmothers turned Christian, try to warn 'em but he ain't listen
Now it's phone calls from prison, daddy little girl is missing
Thirteen when she started kissing, she came in late pops was flippin'
Momma's boy, sold his cracks, to be employed
Not noticin' we caught in the trap, to be destroyed
Lookin' out of cab window, same babies in the carriage, now sell indo
Carry an info', the sore losers can't win, so they spread rumors
Corrupt cops, either lock or shoot us
We love the hood with a ghetto respect, Nat Turner
The burner be the mind first amendment, say it, cuz I meant
Don't care about those who get offended
We rock like Jimi Hendrix, me and my kindred
Street corner experts, in jeans and a sweatshirt
Team mates kick dirt, for CREAM and a network
Your back'll get stabbed for that cash money bag
You ain't a thug, with your chain, gun and doo-rag
New car, new lab, powerful weed from just two drags
You coughin' on oregano, be careful who you follow bro
Someone to push your Bentley, but they ain't ready though
Someone to be an M.C., and on the radio
Some sell yayo, it's tricks in the ghettio
Chick where my cash go? You just like the last hoe
Bloomberg fucked up the crack flow, we let gats blow
Twisted colors on our capsule, turn projects to castles
You ever heard of the black Jews? You seen us on the five o'clock news

[Chorus