[Verse:]
These are the things they carried: duct tapes, thirty-eights, and nigga merry
To the toast, they that close, but now he ghost slow with the steel
Scully ran from the blood spilled, a pocket of crumpled bills
Sock full of crills, dreams of a house on the hill
The number of a girl named Paula written on back of a dollar
She still waiting for him to call, met her at the mall
She had on her favorite lipstick, she got two babies
Little boy is six, baby girl always sick, never seen her father
She used to visit but why bother, he caught a big case
Remember when boo got shot in the face, the same cat
Feds hit his place, the kid had a key a base, six stolen guns
Time he got tons, clock creep concurrent, home made hot plate
Of new burners, shoes with no laces, pictures of faraway faces
Dog-eared over the years, counting your shoe pillow, voice tears
A BGS spare for some kings on the tear, New Years, pre-nup prepared
No hope, no fear, neither belonging here, letter from his mama
They just run into each other, his cellmate nickname Butta
Talk with a stutter, so he mutter, got a little brother
Out in Brooklyn, used to watch Butta get coke cooking
Now he g’d up, in and out central booking, didn’t no one
Notice them cats looking, ‘bout to get his work tooken
Step to ‘em on that note, little bro tried to go in his coat
First shot hit him in the throat, they stripped his chain
Couldn’t find the coke, and these are the things he carried
And these are the things he carried
To all my peoples, you know what I’m saying
Going in the streets man, it’s me next
You know what I’m saying, spitamatics
Ashford Hill, Georgia Forest, Weston, Euclid Street, North West D.C
Fuck is you talking ‘bout, BK’s 150th and 7th Ave
Nigga, we here now
These are the things they carried: duct tapes, thirty-eights, and nigga merry
To the toast, they that close, but now he ghost slow with the steel
Scully ran from the blood spilled, a pocket of crumpled bills
Sock full of crills, dreams of a house on the hill
The number of a girl named Paula written on back of a dollar
She still waiting for him to call, met her at the mall
She had on her favorite lipstick, she got two babies
Little boy is six, baby girl always sick, never seen her father
She used to visit but why bother, he caught a big case
Remember when boo got shot in the face, the same cat
Feds hit his place, the kid had a key a base, six stolen guns
Time he got tons, clock creep concurrent, home made hot plate
Of new burners, shoes with no laces, pictures of faraway faces
Dog-eared over the years, counting your shoe pillow, voice tears
A BGS spare for some kings on the tear, New Years, pre-nup prepared
No hope, no fear, neither belonging here, letter from his mama
They just run into each other, his cellmate nickname Butta
Talk with a stutter, so he mutter, got a little brother
Out in Brooklyn, used to watch Butta get coke cooking
Now he g’d up, in and out central booking, didn’t no one
Notice them cats looking, ‘bout to get his work tooken
Step to ‘em on that note, little bro tried to go in his coat
First shot hit him in the throat, they stripped his chain
Couldn’t find the coke, and these are the things he carried
And these are the things he carried
To all my peoples, you know what I’m saying
Going in the streets man, it’s me next
You know what I’m saying, spitamatics
Ashford Hill, Georgia Forest, Weston, Euclid Street, North West D.C
Fuck is you talking ‘bout, BK’s 150th and 7th Ave
Nigga, we here now
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