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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 fucked off, now you tryna murk rap True success comes from work, fuck understanding, know that Ain't none niggas 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 niggas 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 shit 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 bullshit 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 Nigga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you) Nigga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you) Nigga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you) Nigga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you) Nigga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you) Wish a nigga would tell me to run my pockets I'ma pop it, locked and loaded, I ain't gotta cock it Bodies droppin', call the cops and Johnnie Cochran Niggas 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