Said Yo-Solomon Childs

Said Yo - Solomon Childs [Intro: ~Solomon Childs~] Word, ni**a it's like* I always felt like I was trapped (Right, yeah) I always come home, and I still on parole And sh*t, I only felt like I was trapped It's like I'm not anymore (I feel you) And I'm still gettin' money I'm still hittin' bullets, I'm still makin' moves Man, rules gotta be made, man, it's like this ain't even a game and sh*t Yo, check this (Tell 'em how it is dun!) [Chorus (2x): ~Solomon Childs~ {*inspired by G. Rap's "Streets of New York"*}] A little kid says "yo!" I got a colored T.V., C.D. player and car stereo And all I want is a capsule I also got a .38, don't give me no hassle [Solomon Childs] Sellin' cracks to buy Timbs and shrimp fried rice And project life, got a hell of a price Shaolin, Body Brighton, ain't nothin' nice Five hundred Benz parked in front of the hood Twenty two years up in the hood Code of the streets, money on the wood Top the world, fish scale fragments Roaches infested in model mahogany cabinets Whatever you need, so whatever you askin' for This the theme for a project war Yo, this what a thug about, millennium pace Poppa said they f**kin' wit you, punch 'em in they f**kin' face To each is own, this is the projects, son Hold yo own, you livin' in the projects, son In '86, I was rockin' mocknecks, in '88, I was blazin' big Tec's How many times must I say King of New York Before it goes through ya thick head And understand that I'm all on it for the bread Solomon could hit a code red, this is for the food on the table This is for the Pay-Per-View on cable This is to give my daughter horses up in the stable Not for nothin', but from losers to f**kin' wit winners Barbeque potato chips, now I'm eatin' lobster dinners This is ghetto, ashy, grimy... huh! [Chorus 2X] [Solomon Childs] I smell fear in ya heart, shootouts inside the Moncaro Park Burnin' in the dark, Cuban Link dead Jesus cross Renegade lyrical force, underground, never the boss Try to see more units, then the Titanic, be easy before ya scwal panic Listen duke, you soft, wise up or get pushed off Make the baddest birds get wet when they walk Do the knowledge to the thug talk Lyrics is realer than Bronx Supreme Court This is a bloodsport, wallet and fats from Southport Huh, I declare doomsday, representin' for Henderson and Broadway (B-Town baby) show you how to stag g's [Hook 2X: Solomon Childs] All you cats trynna sound like the dead These the realest lyrics ever said And to beatmizers, pullin' the same strings Pushin' the same buttons, yo, on the frontline [Outro: Solomon Childs] ...But she want me to keep money in my pocket What kinda madness is that man? What you talkin' bout, yo You know it's hard for a brother to get a job And you can't really do it like that Cuz you ain't really tryin' to be behind the cash register Flippin' no burgers and sh*t You got the f**kin' hat on, you lookin' like a real cornball And she's constantly tellin' you "Yeah I need money, I need money" And then the next cat up in the muthaf**kin' draws But you know what? Hah-hah, hah-hah-hah