[Boots]
|
Well, he was smilin' like a vulture as he rolled up the horticulture
|
Ignited it, and said, "I hope the vapors don't insult ya"
|
What I replied denied, but he mixin weed and hop
|
His head was noddin' up and down like he agreed a lot
|
Bored, said, "We need a plot," I comply, "Let's leave the spot"
|
Hopped in the Granada, he's impressed by the beat I got
|
His name is "hay-zoos" but his pimp name is "gee-zus"
|
Slapped a hoe to pieces with his plastic prosthesis
|
"Nigga don't you know that I'm your daddy?" said he
|
This is true, plus he schooled me for my mackin' degree
|
"Never plea, try not to flee, make niggaz pee when you stick around"
|
This man my momma had found taught me to put it down
|
I press the gas to the ground to show that I'm a hound
|
Makin' sho' that get rubber sound is heard throughout the town
|
Thirty years ago, Jesus could pull a hoe quick
|
But now he 50 and his belly hangs lower than his dick
|
Philosophy that he spit stuck in my memory chips
|
And now he puttin' in a disk of Gladys Knight and the Pips
|
Then that shit starts to skip, he said, "Somebody musta scratch it"
|
Put the 40 to his lips and poured the contents down the hatchet
|
Well since my adolescense, cause of his pimp lessons
|
smack my woman in the dental just for askin' silly questions
|
Relationship reduction to either rock the box or suction
|
Ain't got no close potnahs, socially I cain't function
|
From the pen he would scribe, on how to survive:
|
"Don't be Microsoft, be Macintosh with a Hard Drive"
|
Used to tell me all the time to keep a bitch broke
|
Did I mention that my momma was his number one hoe?
|
Clunked the 40 on the flo' and placed his palm on the dash
|
and wheezed out, "C'mon man, make this motherfucker mash!"
|
Ain't gon' mash too fast, cause my tags ain't right
|
Me and Jesus the Pimp in a '79 Granada last night
|
|
Chorus: *sung* (2X)
|
|
Oakland do you wanna ride?
|
I can't hear you! Oakland do you wanna ride tonight?
|
|
[Boots]
|
City lights from far way can makeyou drop yo' jaw
|
Sparklin' like sequins on a transvestite at Mardi Gras
|
There's beauty in the cracks of the cement
|
When I was five I hopped over them wherever we went to prevent
|
whatever it was that could break my momma's back
|
Little did I know that it would roll up in a Cadillac
|
And matta-fact, she couldn't see him like a cataract
|
And on the track, she went from beautiful to battleaxe
|
And back at home, she would cry into her pillow
|
Vomit in the commode, I was six years old
|
I would crawl onto her lap and we would hug and hold
|
She asked me what I thought of Jesus when he broke off some bread
|
I said, "He missin' a arm, and he seem like a pee-pee head"
|
She said, "Don't cuss," and my teeth to go brush
|
And get ready for bed, and the toilet to flush
|
With tears in my momma's eyes, I was her everything
|
Before she went out on the stroll
|
She'd tuck me into bed and sing:
|
|
You're much too beautiful for words (4X)
|
|
I see the red and white lights as the ambulance flies
|
Reminds me of midnight in a dopefiend's eyes
|
And my 9-year-old self as paramedics leave
|
Left to ball my eyes out on a neighbor's sleeve
|
To make illustrations that are clear and clean
|
I'll take you two hours back before this scene:
|
Early in the morning when the sun starts to creep
|
When the birds start to chirp and crackheads go to sleep
|
Moms was comin' in I heard her keys go clink
|
Wearin' nothin' but pumps, bikini, and fake mink
|
Even though she served, for fifty dollars-a-pop
|
Hardly had enough for rent after Jesus re-copped
|
That day the landlady got her rent befo' he got his knot
|
Slammed momma's head against the front bolt lock
|
Then the pump wit one arm done harm
|
Reached back and plowed into her head like a farm
|
Never saw the act, locked in the back, I was cussin'
|
Heard the blap blap of tewnty headcrack percussion
|
and body blows, her body froze from bolo's to the spine
|
I was hysterically cryin', all she could do was whine
|
She didn't even have the strength to say, |