Posted on October 3, 2012

(A #KZHS Interactive Hip-Hop Experience)



Lyrics by KZ

Music: Game’s “Ricky” instrumental

(Click for music; lyrics begin at 0:23)


[Verse 1]


Sometimes I have nightmares about dying like Ricky

Cutting through the back alley when the buckshot hits me

First round makes Shredded Wheat of my left knee

A career-ending injury; then my rib cage empties


Big brother round the corner with the pistol; come help me

I’ve spilled my milk, and Trey’s yelling about a felony

If I die, send all three these busters to hell quickly

Drink a beer at 10am and tell the story of jealousy


Trey and that hood rat getting ready to move to Georgia

And Dough, within two weeks time you’ll be a goner

I wonder if moms will keep your car or find an owner?

Before we processed it all, the whole movie was over


That fool in the Bulls hat you embarrassed at the car show

Who emptied out his MAC to let the whole block know it

He knew where we stayed; I’ve seen em around before

Should have known they had the heart to let a sawed-off go


Did Monster go to prison for the way he popped the chopper?

Right out the top of your drop-top Impala

He told you cut the lights when you were setting up to drop them?

Should have robbed the motherfuckers; took the shotgun off em


Sweated Trey after the cookout; just rolled up and marked him

 Taking Furious a plate right before it got dark

Pulled up to the curb in that red bucket and parked it

He only lived because he didn’t make a single remark


I can’t believe he got out when you went to avenge me

He’s softer than the silk shirt he got from the swap meet

So afraid to touch pussy; got some sympathy from Brandi

But I’m glad he made it out to the college near Atlanta


While you’re here, big bro, is Lil Chris still breathing?

A real motherfucker paralyzed for no reason

Ended up in that wheelchair; ol knucklehead heathen

Held it down for the block, and everybody else’s heater


More important than me, is the life of my son

Who the hell is gonna raise him now with both of us gone?

Mom’s a lot older now; with her five foot patch of lawn

When she first got pregnant; should have moved to Oregon


I give a fuck about us, man; I’m sad about her

So proud of my scholarship; told me I had worth

She liked my daddy better; treated you a little worse

I’m sorry about that; a burden you didn’t deserve


V-Dub got us in trouble; not flexing or flossing

Somebody fingered us for a drive-by on Slauson

Next thing we know, an angry cop is felony stopping

If we had dope or guns, it would have been time to drop em


Trey was scared of Compton, asked me to come with him

Furious explained that we had futures beyond prison

Showed us a billboard; had us envision it with him

The man should have been a preacher; speaking with conviction


We were raised in a system that was designed to kill us

Let the gang bangers do it, call it neighborhood business

Would have only been time; that racist cop would revisit us

You probably would have killed him and caught a life sentence


He looked like Bernie Mac, and hated the color black

 And the barrel of his revolver was longer than Shaq

Put the .357 to Trey’s chin and cocked back

A mistaken identity call got us back on track


I wake up from these dreams with the vividest of pictures

And take them as a warning like a biblical scripture

Stand up and pour out a cognac-based elixir

And fire up a Philly like a Seventy-Sixer


My perspective gets dimmer than a broken light fixture

Go out and socialize like the new student mixer

Strike out left and right like a major-league pitcher

Feel sicker than Precious diabetic big sister


You never feel prouder than with two keys of powder

The weed man on the Interstate; driving in from Broward

Connects become currency; give the average man power

To stand under the umbrella, and out of the shower


Nameless thug down the street; never even knew ya

Is holding a Tec-9, getting worked up to shoot you 

When he comes around the corner; be ready to maneuver

Or post up mom’s attic like in a U-Haul mover


Have something on hand to combat the deceptive

The preferred rate of fire is typically selective

Survival is and always was the main objective

Making funds and finding problems is always connected


I live on the defensive with guns; Kevlar vested

My record’s 1-0; I’m still uncontested

Receive the ammunition that you air-mail requested

If you move on anything with which I’m invested



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