[Verse 1: Mazza L20]
Let me keep it real with the fans
They think I'm OCG, I've never been in a gang
I've been around straps, ears ring when it bangs
Scorpion teeth, they were looking like fangs
People hating on me, keeps fucking up my plans
The real can relate but I don't think you'll understand
I was smoked in the side of my chest and my hand
I had a shotgun but I never had a grand
I was stoned, robbing food from the shops in The Strand
He's fifteen, olders put Glocks in his hands
No gloves so he put socks on his hands
They gassed him up and now he feels like he's part of the gang
Till he got nicked for a shooting, now he's sitting on remand
Putting numbers on his pin and every number that he rang
Rang out, they blanked him and left him to hang
The opps have got a pattern so it's sticky when he lands
No flicky, got him sharpening some metal, tryna sand
Nobody sent a penny or checking on his nan
He's doing laps on the yard but he's not tryna get a tan
No canteen, he can't even get a scran
Head fuck, thinking "Fuck it" though, it's time to be a man
They're putting hits on him but he's not shy
He pulled out his blade and went and done it on sight
Now he's sitting down the block in a cell with no light
He never went to school, he can't read and can't write
He banged guns from young so he really can't fight
Scraping metal on the wall, tryna sharpen up his spike
Money on his head, he doesn't care about the price
Cause if anybody tries to collect, they're getting sliced
He hasn't had a life, he went to court and got life
Now he can't sleep, somebody's knocking on the pipes
Eyes bloodshot red, he hasn't slept all night
Nobody even checked to see if he was alright
They found him hanging in the morning man, rest in peace Mike
This is real life man, it's really what it's like
People think it's funny but it's really not nice
Blisters on your hands from sharpening spikes
Towels at the bottom of your doors for the mice
Faces get sliced so that they can smoke spice
The court's giving out numbers like a dice
Then they put you on a cover like Uncle Ben's rice
I fucking hate jail man, I've only been twice
Done a two then a eight, that's ten years of my life
He got life at fourteen man, free that boy Kife
Let me keep it real with the fans
They think I'm OCG, I've never been in a gang
I've been around straps, ears ring when it bangs
Scorpion teeth, they were looking like fangs
People hating on me, keeps fucking up my plans
The real can relate but I don't think you'll understand
I was smoked in the side of my chest and my hand
I had a shotgun but I never had a grand
I was stoned, robbing food from the shops in The Strand
He's fifteen, olders put Glocks in his hands
No gloves so he put socks on his hands
They gassed him up and now he feels like he's part of the gang
Till he got nicked for a shooting, now he's sitting on remand
Putting numbers on his pin and every number that he rang
Rang out, they blanked him and left him to hang
The opps have got a pattern so it's sticky when he lands
No flicky, got him sharpening some metal, tryna sand
Nobody sent a penny or checking on his nan
He's doing laps on the yard but he's not tryna get a tan
No canteen, he can't even get a scran
Head fuck, thinking "Fuck it" though, it's time to be a man
They're putting hits on him but he's not shy
He pulled out his blade and went and done it on sight
Now he's sitting down the block in a cell with no light
He never went to school, he can't read and can't write
He banged guns from young so he really can't fight
Scraping metal on the wall, tryna sharpen up his spike
Money on his head, he doesn't care about the price
Cause if anybody tries to collect, they're getting sliced
He hasn't had a life, he went to court and got life
Now he can't sleep, somebody's knocking on the pipes
Eyes bloodshot red, he hasn't slept all night
Nobody even checked to see if he was alright
They found him hanging in the morning man, rest in peace Mike
This is real life man, it's really what it's like
People think it's funny but it's really not nice
Blisters on your hands from sharpening spikes
Towels at the bottom of your doors for the mice
Faces get sliced so that they can smoke spice
The court's giving out numbers like a dice
Then they put you on a cover like Uncle Ben's rice
I fucking hate jail man, I've only been twice
Done a two then a eight, that's ten years of my life
He got life at fourteen man, free that boy Kife
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