This song is an ode to the hustler in everyone of us. Wether
it’s the single mother working multiple jobs, or the father laying roofs in 110
degrees weather. My hustla world went from slanging on the corner, to music,
to, now, aspiring to become a writer of books.
The first verse is a celebration of us (Dope House Records)
making it:
“I’m talkin dead-ass presidents, drivin S-class
elegance/Buying gidgets and gadgets that fuckin send fast messages. . .”
I say:
“My hope is to write a book and show’em the fight it
took/Remember when I lost the two O-Z’z tryna cook?”
This last line talks about losing two ounces of crack down
the kitchen sink. It was in a mayonnaise jar, and I had just pulled it out of
the microwave, so it was still in it’s jelly form. You have to splace cold
water on the jelly so it settles at the bottom. It was me, T.O., Ron Clark and
few other guys there at my trailer. I was at the sink splashing water on the
dope, and the bottom of the jar broker. Two ounces, that costed me twelve
hundred dollars, fell smoothly down the drain. “Nooooooooo!” I screamed. I had
just started in the game and that was all the money I had to my name.
My homeboys dared not laugh, even though I could tell they
wanted to. We were all just dumb teenagers trying to make it out of the ghetto
anyway we could. “Nobody turn on the water!” I yelled.
I ran to my mom’s room (she was at work, of course) and
grabbed a little toolbox she kept in her closet. I took apart the pipes under
the sink and reached my hand in there, hoping to pull out atleast a few hundred
dollars of my product. All I grabbed was a bunch of slimey, green gunk, I could
tell T.O. laughed but he acted like he was coughing. “Noooooooo!” I screamed,
again. I got up and kicked a few pieces of furniture, threw a few things around
and wondered what I was going to do next.
Later that day, I called my best friend, Hulon, who
originally showed me how to cook dope in a microwave. “Man, I lost two ounces
today, “ I said.
“How did you do that?
“The fucking jar broked from the bottom, and my shit went
down the drain.”
“Damn, nigga, how many times you use that jar?”
“I been using the same one!”
“Naw, my nigga, you can’t use the same jar. The glass gets
weak.”
“You son-of-a-bitch, now you tell me! I’ll kill you
motherfucker!”
“Calm ya little jalapeno-ass down, nigga. Come to the house,
I’ll front you a win.”
“You ain’t frontin me shit! I’m taking all you shit!”
“Hurry up before my momma get home.”
True to his word, he “fronted”(loaned) me a “win”(an amount
of dope that I could profit from) and I had to start all over.
The second verse starts:
“The eyes of broken hearts, the lives that broke apart/
turning the ignition close ya eyes and hope it start . . . “
When I wrote that line, I pictured a single mom having to
get to work. She has this crappy car, and no one to help her fix it. It’s a
cold morning and she’s not sure if it’ll even start. She closes her eyes,
whispers a prayer and turns the ignition.
The verse goes on to talk about prison, another hustla
world:
“Wonder why the money makes a man take and deystroy,
Because the money is the push behind Satan’s employee
The devil’s hook hides deep inside big face bills
You either die or you findin out how this place feels. . . “
The last verse takes us to yet another hustla world, the
strip club. I’ll give you the ;ast line, then go into the chorus, which I’m
singing:
“Spendin hundred dollar bills, shit don’t let me begin,
Cause everytime I leave that place I feel empty again. . .
(chorus-being sung)
Just a gangsta mind up in a hustla world
Growin up a nigga couldn’t even trust my girl
Unzip my hoodie and I draw the strap
Either that or get zipped in a body bag
So many of’em die and the wounds don’t heal
Make me wonder what the real definition of real
Never thought that a Papermate would save my life
It’s nothing but the truth as I raise my right. . . “
Con Amor,
Los
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