Santa Rita Weekend

Lyrics

[Verse 1: Spice-1] Stepping up out of my cell with sandals and county blues Handcuffs and shackles, finna ride up on that grey goose Caught another case 'cause I was strapped with my .9 And see these drawers that I'm wearing? Motherfuckers ain't mine, nigga Excuse me, homie, can I hit that, mista? Niggas rollin' up indo outta toilet tissue, huh Ain't this a bitch? Some niggas is scared to hit it Fool, I'm with it So phone check, nigga, get the fuck off the line Before I stick your ass in here and have to do some more time, player Wanna give me the strap 'cause I was strapped with a Glock I guess I got to sit my Black ass right there and get shot, see But fool, it ain't no goin' out, see, I keep storin' clout And show these niggas what I'm all about See niggas screaming from cell to cell Snitches don't tell, a party in hell at Santa Rita county jail [Verse 2: E-Roc] Every time I turn around, every time I look I'm considered to be a murderer, a crook Ali shook the world, I'm gon' shake my homie's hand Three in the morning, dressed in blue once again My size ten rest upon the concrete floor Heads bob real slow to a freestyle flow I don't know this master plan, can't understand Why there's more Black folks in jail than Japanese in Japan But uh, my eyes pink, sitting up on that bunk Thinking about them tickets, choking up on that funk, chump Withdraw a Snicker from my commissary bank Sunday, Monday came, fool, I'm out this holding tank But it makes me think the system treating us like a merry-go-round One day you're chilling at home, the next, you headed downtown Peace to my hounds in the county in the pen Once again, it's a Santa Rita weekend [Chorus] Just sitting up on the top bunk Watching the cell block row Just sitting up on the top bunk Watching the cell block row [Verse 3: E-40] Seven zero seven case motherfucking number two eleven Stressin', manifestin', tore up from the floor Penelopes got me on the floor Accused of robbing a store Who do you know, nigga? Naybody Besides-ory, I refuse to answer any questions Without the advisory of my lawyer Mr. Baker Pervin' off this boilermaker Let me go, po-po, I'm innocent Mistaken, right? Suppose all Blacks look alike Thank you kindly, sir You need to practice your professional better Never run up on me again Bust a pattern, be off into the wind Back up off me, biatch, huh Just the other day, my crony shot me a kite "E-40, baby boy, you becomin' hella tight" Claybank, Vacaville, then up there by Reno Rita, Quentin, Folsom, Chino [Chorus] Just sitting up on the top bunk Watching the cell block row [Interlude: Boots Riley] Nah man, I didn't want the chorus right here I wanted to throw that breakdown in, you know, that bassline Yeah, oh yeah [Verse 4: Boots Riley] It's like yayo, mail, weights and scales It don't mean shit when you're sitting in the county jail Is it my turn to tell the tale of how I got popped And how my lawyer finna get me out on the spot? Slide the cell block, my homies give me love Some here for having gats, some here for selling drugs Sometimes you do your shit and ain't no second tries Look around, there's hella motherfuckers that I recognize "Oh, what's up, man? I'm back again" But it's a temporary situation, taking weekend vacations Government incarceration I call myself working on a pay hike They calling me working on my third strike Psych, I can't go forward And motherfuckers can't ignore it 'Cause all my peoples on parole, in the pen or got a warrant So it's some shit I done leaped in Damn, another Santa Rita weekend [Chorus] Just sitting up on the top bunk Watching the cell block row Just sitting up on the top bunk Watching the cell block row