Trauma lyrics

[Verse 1: Jay Jones]
sh*t, I never wanted hand-outs
I said I'ma take the man route
Went from staying in Gram's house
Got bread to get the fam out
I tried to get away but the streets got me
I'm in the trenches, I could be on the beach probably
But Lord knows
Ready for smoke, go grab the black bag, ain't doin' that bad
They say I never seen a rap check, f*ck history
I never failed a math test
Bullets can't even hit a G, I guess you say I'm that blessed
Section 8, like the projects
Soak in it, let it digest
Started off with weed and I graduated pyrex
Roll it up in a leaf, that's my relief, along with Hi-Tec
Got n*ggas on the street, I'm wondering how they ain't die yet
sh*t, cause sh*t ain't the same, n*gga
So watch where you hang, n*gga
Don't get your ass in trouble
You thought life was a game, n*gga?
I did this off the muscle
Me and you not the same, n*gga
Same hittas, turn your fitted cap to a drop-top, brain missing
South Beach, I got a Cuban b*tch from Jermaine, n*gga
Plug daughter, I might just flood the streets with the 'caine, n*gga
Times hard, but you know sun gon' shine after rain, n*gga
Never [?] eventually they gon' change, n*gga
Bang, don't like to talk about it
I get to thinking they won't put sh*t in a coffin 'bout it
Go Vietnam, invest in bombs and start war about it
Murder your moms, ignore the lines cause we gon' cross them out quick
sh*t, you live by the gun, you die by the gun
I get so high, I just said hi to the sun
I told my girl we need to have a lil' son
Ain't giving up until the battle is done
Don't give a f*ck because I feel like I won
[Verse 2: Curren$y]
City small, so the wrist big
I went through a sh*t storm, but I'm still here
I just slid through the door before that b*tch closed
And then attached a C4, blew it off the hinge
b*tch, let my homies in
Dig this, n*ggas ain't slick, I'm on it
We talking 'bout how to fix you this morning
That cake baked, n*gga just wait
I'm on skates, Dayton's on my Chevrolet
New Impalas every dates
n*ggas dying everyday
This New Orleans, what's new?
Be cool, 'fore the next robbery right here be about you
They shook
Rap cappers, no hooks, behind back passes
Alley-Oops, no looks
We all on the scoreboard, we All-Stars, like Chuck Taylor's
Racing Lamborghini's with soccer players
Off season in Brazil, cheefin'
Eastside to your side, it ain't easy