[Verse 1: Scarface]
Ghetto n***as remain violent while the k**ers remain silent
n***as strapped with 45's and ain't smiling
And I'm driving to a place they're all warrin'
The lake we build houses but its the hood we call home
In the ghetto the only place a motherf**er will keep it real
We focused on the dollar bill, still
The outsiders tend to disrespect the place
Where n***as do they struggling die with a straight face
Surviving, under conditions demons died in
You can run it but can't hide it so step aside
Its the n***a that makes music for the streets
Cause I love this motherf**er like p**y with no sheets
Cause its deep
Some n***as make it out the neighborhood and won't surface
And let the money make them nervous, what's the purpose?
A motherf**er sitting on fat
Who done came up in the hood but he can't come back
f** that, I remain in the street game frame
On a mission to maintain me and take aim
In position to let my opposition know my life
Cause off in these streets I keep it real but what's right?
Surviving, sitting on a key doing business on a beeper
I'm sinking in this motherf**er deeper
Fear the reaper that no man born or woman harm me
f** being a n***a in your army; though I'm a k**er
Enter the ghetto so that you can see
What I mean when I say I love this cause it loves me
Let it be, stop looking at this motherf**er strange
And talking 'bout a motherf**ing change
This is for my thug n***as
[Chorus: Master P]
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as
[Verse 2: Master P]
'Face, imagine us working at McDonald's
To me and you, selling f**ing, tapes to the Bahamas
Gold slug, a car full of thug n***as
Twenty inch wheels candy paint so we drug dealers
No Limit soldiers to the fullest
See I was raised on red beans the size of some bullets, huh
We ghetto n***as can't be stopped
Got me mixing up dope with little J down at Rap-A-Lot
My phone tapped the feds on my tail
Got me paying luxury taxes on everything I build
True to the ghetto that's my life
You see that house on the lake its for the kids and the wife
You can test me if you wanna
Cause I be dumping n***as off from New Orleans to California
Rowdy like a hurricane (uuuuuugh)
Independent, black owned got 'em hooked on this c**aine
You used to see CEO's in suits and ties
But we young n***as in tennis shoes and diamonds
Executive street millionaires
n***as gonna be bout it bout till we gray in the wheel chair
(Chorus: Master P]
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as
[Verse 3: 2Pac]
What do you get from boosting?
n***as coming out to California, and represent them n***as from
Houston
And now 2Pac ll keep this sh** popping
And all my n***as across the Bay, know L.A., keep the sh** hot
I keep a Glock inside my pants , don't give Locaz a chance
Put me inside a casket, you dirty ba*tards
Until the day I die, you catch a n***a high off weed, the police can't
Find me
My sh** will drop and I'll sell five million
While all the n***as enter the game, they caught up in drug dealing
Now how can I fall? how can I ball, how can I catch my enemies and murder 'em all?
My words of flame, burn n***as inside their brain
n***as can't hang with me, and nuttin's changes, uh
Scarface got me on this sh**
We lace heat, motherf**ers in they body and face, uh
Growing thicker, liquor, maybe ya daddy a n***a
n***as don't wanna see me worldwide, mob figure
M.O.B., Hennessy keep me g'd and
Keyed n***as, don't wanna see me, when I got weed, in my system
Catch another victim, capture bodies
Bring a shottie to the f**ing party, yeah
I party all night
I do this sh** cause its wrong but we born right
And to these n***as in my zone, we do it long ways
'till these b**hes understand n***a my song pays; cause I'm the man
Now these are my homeboys, we outlaws till the day we die
Keep this sh**, rough and raw
My 45, make sho', that I survived, to another day
Just bust rhymes, and brothers get paid
Now that's the end, of my freestyle, but it was left for dead
Buy the sh**, and you can hear it playing, West Side!
[Chorus: Master P]
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as (uuuuugh)
This one for the homies and the thug n***as