it's a story about two brothers
grew up in the world alone
forced to fend for themselves
in the rotten apples of new york city
how many nigs did we get so far?
i put the heat to his face to shut him up
went in his pockets and got the cash in some big amounts
i looked him dead cold in his eyes
that explain the voices i've been hearin
you ain't really have to kill him
yo god he moved - but i lied
there's our sick stick-up turned homicide
so? that's the way our momma died
is you with me i'ma slide
had to get our gameplan together
cause this little bit of stickup loot ain't lastin us forever
on the edge with no place to go
we can't go back to the hood we stuck up everyone we know
people will rob from each other
people will steal from their mother
people will kill their own brother. now everytime i hear a fuckin siren
every face i see i think he after me
we was supposed to be gettin work from this large cat
but since we know where he rest at - we goin bogart!
heard he had a hundred g's alone on his gold card
his crab wife showed me mad cash in her blouse
she said he the mad stash at the house
couldn't pass up a jooks like this anyday
that's when we bumped heads
with vicks that we stuck from way back
the way them niggaz lookin god they drivin mad frantic
shots through they windshield
hit the kid behind the steering wheel it's the way i feel
in a state to kill i wanna watch him die
we got bigger fish to fry
only thing i saw was a nigga four-four
and tell me where the loot's at
i'll tell you just don't shoot black!"