Jail sh*t lyrics

[Intro: Sean Price]
Yo, listen (Sean P)
This my story I'm sticking to it

[Verse 1: Sean Price]
Who this? Sean Price, groovy sh*t
Catch a body cop out to a two to six
Lesser charge, yo don't even stress the sarge
That's my girl pops, why you think she bless the God?
Weed and dope, anything you need to smoke
For the Kings, Ñetas, triple B's and Locs
Five Percent n*ggas, ayo, peace God
Knife in ya' hand, tryna get a damn piece, God
Ain't nothin' left to do but pull out ya' piece, God
Dig in they face, until you tear out a piece, God
Hearing some things, overall, fearing no things
Set it off on a German, do a year in the bing
You done grown dreadlocks, did a bid in the bing
You done blown head bop, turned queer in the bing
You should hang it up pa, can't take this stuff
But wait, pops died, go to wake in cuffs
b*tch

[Chorus: Rock]
You come home to the streets, n*ggas raising hell
Fightin', cuttin', damn it's the same as jail
Only the grimy get over, ain't no making bail
Get torn out the frame if ya' frame is frail
[Verse 2: Sean Price]
I hope and pray my first born be next to parole
Tired of liftin' weights, playin' chess with stones
I'm tired of things, tired of the riots and gangs
Tired of the jack mac, calimari and Tang
When I come home ma, I swear to God I'ma change
But when I, come home, you know the God won't change
I'm bluffin' for real, girl you know the f*ck is the deal
Soon as I touchdown, I need to puff on the real
Bang my first floor pa, now I'm focused, free
But caught a violation for smoking weed
As the cop escort me, as I troop to a cell
With a smile, but inside I'm feeling stupid as hell
Man I'm 29 going on 30, kid
Can't be getting locked up for no dirty di*k

[Chorus: Rock]
You come home to the streets, n*ggas raising hell
Fightin', cuttin', damn it's the same as jail
Only the grimy get over, ain't no making bail
Get torn out the frame if ya' frame is frail

[Verse 3: Sean Price]
My life is in danger, my son set it off on the imam
n*ggas being easy, how the f*ck can you be calm?
Looking bad son, them n*ggas deep as hell
Realizing all my motherf*ckin' peeps is frail
It's just me, Killa, Rum di*k, Psyche and Will
Dee and a crackhead named Mike from the 'ville
If I die, yo I'm going out with knives in they grill
All my motherf*ckin' life I been real, yo
Yo, ayo this one for all my real n*ggas
[Chorus: Rock]
You come home to the streets, n*ggas raising hell
Fightin', cuttin', damn it's the same as jail
Only the grimy get over, ain't no making bail
Get torn out the frame if ya' frame is frail
You come home to the streets, n*ggas raising hell
Fightin', cuttin', damn it's the same as jail
Only the grimy get over, ain't no making bail
Get torn out the frame if ya' frame is frail