Fun, no fun, no fun . . .
That’s the way that we hustle, ’cause we struggle everyday [everyday . . .].
Pain . . . so much pain.
Now, I’m locked inside this prison system, bitten, count days left on my
Sentence. Now I can say that I’ve been here, but I sure ain’t gon’ come back
Here. Uh-uh. The day they release me, I’m goin’ home. I can cope, but I can’t
Adjust. These fuckin’ steel doors drivin’ me nuts. My last month, I’m ready to
Move out. I’m sure. Stay on the low: I listen to thug stories, and be trippin’
On niggas love stories. I’m fin to get out of this muthafucka—heard ’em call
Out my name: 250-2-2-58. Pack up your shit; it’s your day. Jumped out my bunk,
Give all my shit to my niggas. In fact, I left everything that I had back in
Jail but my raps. I’m on the streets now. Scene unchanged—niggas still the
Same. I ain’t fuckin’ with you bustas, ’cause I’m tryin’ to make a change. I
Got with the real dogs, and we was schemin’ on the mill, y’all. So we had to
Chill on y’all. Get out of Cleveland, if we planned to achieve it. So we
Planned it with Eazy on Greyhound, and now we lea!
Vin’.
That’s the way that we hustle, ’cause we struggle everyday [everyday . . .].
Pain . . . so much pain.