Jim Jones: When thugs die

Got this problem with these niggaz on the other side of townPlus my little homey Pop-la-di he's a rider nowSo you know he want some answers off top he ridin downWith them automatic weapons, load and fire in the pound (bang bang)Hood devestated, prayin that they let him make itHeard it 'bout the incident, it's crazy how he just got faded (it's fucked up)But it's better places, G's call it heaven's MatrixPray the Lord open up, they told me how heaven's gated (let a thug in)Certified, decoratedMurder never hesitated, I heard it was premeditated (who told you that)And my whole hood segregatedHarlem World's so small, but my whole ghetto dedicated (Eastside, Westside)We was young, loose cannonsShoot cannons, point aim, broad day, wherever you standin (fuck that do it now)We live our life as a GDay and, night with the heat, rollin dice on the streetNow come on[Chorus 4X: Jim Jones]Do doves fly, when thugs cry?Here's a story 'bout the trials and tribulations of this thug life[Jim Jones]Now, play the game, know the code, say no namesFast life ain't no game, R.I.P. Baby MainHe was large in the game, slingin thangsShiny rings, diamond chains, he's a star in my hood (he was ?)All the cars, V12 by the hoodHad the jets, had the strip, had the power, he was livin that lifeNew whips every hour, it's a shame, in my hoodHe'll be missed like the Towers in the midst of the prowessNot to put his business out there (uh-huh)But the kid'll make you think that Po Rich was out here (like '86)And in these stories it mainly contain the lobbyAbout the young and the restless like Harlem's main {?}[Chorus][Jim Jones]We light and chill, each night we would chillBlock number, fifty-{?}-seven, movin white for them billsStashin open rice for it stales, I tried to tell youThat my life is so real, they dog me in and bring me home nine-treyTook the city on my own crime raid (N.Y.C.)Invadin clubs, with brazy bloods (tell 'em)Tell Peter Geisha what's up, back to the saga, when Light got killedIt's like one side of my life is killed, for realAnd Chills turned state fed, couldn't deal with a state bedBut snitchin breaks the code, gotta lie in your made bed (you know the rules)No sympathy homey, you gotta follow them codesYou get a thousand years of die in that hole (G's up)[Chorus]