226 lyrics

[Intro: Big Rube]
Y'all already know what it is
Big Rube, S.W.A.T. Zone 4
Y'all cats wanna go in circles and do the same thing over and over
Well, this the revolver
How you comin' up when you fall for the trap?
Got the dope game f*cked off, now you tryna murk rap
True success comes from work, f*ck understanding, know that
Ain't none n*ggas servin' dubs gon' get rich off one pack
How many sacks? How many stacks?
Don't matter, this ain't 'bout that
It's 'bout the illness of the spirit 'caused by the realness n*ggas lack
Recidivism is the schism that's become an achilles we can't heal
Why the sounds of our blackness has turned into white noise that we can't feel?
I'd never knowingly endorse a purchase of some sh*t that was created by those without skill
Life teaches this lesson:
Originality and talent are two things that you can't steal
Dead for real, this ain't no game
Your ass could end up dead for real
This endless cycle of ridiculousness is what we need to kill
Yet in still, we didn't instill, with thoughts counteracted the heaven as live
So that same bullsh*t we been programmed with is all we have to give
Revolving around the same snubnose we can't see until they pull it
It's the epitome of ignorance 'cause only a fool plays Russian roulette with six bullets
Gone
[Verse: GRIP]
All black hoodie on, feelin' like Trayvon
But this time I got the gun drawn
n*gga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you)
n*gga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you)
n*gga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you)
n*gga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you)
n*gga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you)
Wish a n*gga would tell me to run my pockets
I'ma pop it, locked and loaded, I ain't gotta c*ck it
Bodies droppin', call the cops and Johnnie Cochran
n*ggas bleeding, hope the doc can stop it
Bustin' shots at all the opps that's plottin', mama screamin'
Sirens singing, paramedics, where's he headed
Pray thee, will he make it? Maybe
Seventeen, he's still a baby, life is faded, family prayin'
Partner sayin' "Load the yopper"
If we spot who shot you, we gon' drop them
Papa blocked a blocka at his casa
Turned his top to pasta, pop his poppa
Murk his mama, bleed his brothers, smoke his sister
Pour some liquor, postin' pictures
Quote we missed her all on Insta pointin' pistols like
On God we'll avenge you
(We'll avenge you)
(We'll avenge you)
(We'll avenge you)
(We'll avenge you)
(We'll avenge you)
(We'll avenge you)
[Outro: GRIP]
*gunshot*
The cycle continues