Page 37

Yeah… 3700 block… Woosley Ave
My vision gettin' clouded on this North Side shit
The homie house got shot up where he tryna raise his kids
In the vill, yellow tape wrapped around where they play
Basketballs in the net, bullets all in they neck
Put a hole in a nigga, dig a hole in the earth
Before your bro is on a shirt, you return the pain first
It ain’t ever gon change, it’s deep rooted im seeing
These niggas are running off pride «let me build my rank up before I die»
Let him show his older homies he ain’t the nigga to try
Most times, see they enemies and shoot into the sky
I can tell when a nigga tryna fit into a crowd
Rather then being built for that lifestyle
You can’t reach your pops, you can’t reach the school
Smokin at the bus stop, tellin niggas bout your tools
Your fam don’t see you, and love don’t see you
Take another niggas life, pray the judge don’t see you… Understood
Turn to page 37, it was written for a nigga not to blow
This is page 37, catch a body broad day they’ll never know
Turn to page 37, it was written for a nigga not to blow
This is page 37, cops guilty and the judge will never know
A reflection of this militant society they built
We move like the government for higher power in the field
They point the finger at the niggas shooting at the parks
But they don’t want to take it back to where it starts
It’s poison in the hood, brain cells gone before growth
A nigga got to watch his mom dissolve off the dope
Planted by who? Not the niggas empty handed
It’s coming from a source, the Feds can only see it granted
Give me a clean slate, too late, I understand
These cuffs on my hands, from the jump was a plan
I’m giving y’all a clue, there’s some clucks in they klan
Corruption is the motive, gentrify all the land
Urine test in they cup, they send it to the lab
But they hire family members like its nothing in they past
No wonder why it’s 48 grams in this bag
Serving to the college kids living off they dads
Turn to page 37, it was written for a nigga not to blow
This is page 37, catch a body broad day they’ll never know
Turn to page 37, it was written for a nigga not to blow
This is page 37, cops guilty and the judge will never know
Four niggas strapped in a cutlass, that’s a full ride
No scholarship, that’s an empty hollow ship
Them sneak waves hit you if you want to play two sides
Watch who you rocking with them niggas snitching on they documents
I pray my niggas in that lifestyle never get caught slippin
I’m on my grind, and all these calls I’m missing
Can be a homie dead but I can’t pause the way they living
They way too far in it, I hope this life time forgive them
Welcome to The St. Johns Scholar