those that don't know Those that don't know that they don't know There's those that don't know Those that don't know that they don't know You know me
sand? Betcha on land they understand That they don't reprimand their daughters Bright, young women sick o' swimmin' Ready to stand I'm ready to know what the people know
hollow, take that 1 - [Carl Thomas] I hear voices inside And I see crime, don't die And I need changes Oh, please, please, please Don't go Don't
didn't hear me though Ya know, grrrrrr Uh One two one two, come through run through Gun who, oh you don't know what the gun do Some do, those that know
THAT'S CRAZY) Life Stories, shit, it ain't goin' gold (OH THAT'S CRAZY) Man, we scanned two million of those (OH THAT'S CRAZY) Now you don't got Permanant
Drew Brees in this muthafucka Don't make me start talking quarter keys in this muthafucker Shell cases, night vision, aint nothing stupider Clips filled up, outta space, Jupiter Don't
know that you have been released Don't think they'll cry for you tomorrow They never cried for you that day But the people in the street are saying to
, I know the game If they don't know who you are, then they don't know what you've done "You're just makin' this harder on yourself, son" I know this
it may not bring mass appeal Your opinion is yours, my opinion is mine If you don't like what I'm saying, fine But don't close it, always keep an open
said it's real as hell Can't explain the way I felt Too many years I seen my brothers die And I can't say that shit was really that fly But I used to
won't know their name Gangsters to the max,all marks will be taxed These girls drive FERRARIS not CADILLACS Respect is demanded,most men don't understand
lot of fans ain't shit Quick to flip if our group don't hit They don't make you nothin' but a pop ho bitch And I don't need ya, I love to bleed ya All
Yeah, this is goin' out to all those muthafuckas That like to use the word 'gangster' Although I am the O.G. I'm representin' that hustlin' game To the
I got no fuckin' time on the mic to play I write rhymes with addition and algebra Mental geometry don't even come at me Talk'n that weak and popin' that
hype-type publicity They don't think twice, about dissin' me But that's a mistake, with tha syndicate you shoudn't mess I hope those punk reporters wear vests Personal Take that
'm on the mic so I think I better mention this I don't like Gucci, Fila, Louie or Fendi Those are fads and I ain't trendy But wheter your names Lucy,
For no reason Pop suckers hookin for hits like hoes skeezin Prostitutes that can't shoot, yet you clock loot Dancesteps with the weak styles, but you look cute Bitch, that
throwing up the W Bringing trouble to Those in sight King T and Big Ice Chorus: [Ice-T] But T that's trippin' and that ain't my sport I'd rather
