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Verse 1:
I was born a poor black kid, Pops doin' a bid
ran down tenement, barely no food in the fridge
My Moms dukes had to raise my on her own
all alone, never had a Father home
I remember clear as day seein' my Mother pray
hopin' I don't be like my Pops and go the other way
but you get tired of your pockets bein' empty
gear skimpy, yo the peer pressure tempt me
at Thirteen had to get my by all means
sellin' to fiends, Pops up State raisin' Hell in the Greens
fuck that, I'm'a hustle, I can't see my Momma struggle
in these Harlem streets drama loves you.
Chorus - Some niggas may have, some niggas may not have, but God bless
the child who holds his own, who holds his own.
HATA BİLDİR
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