i started throwing down when i was only three.
my dad knew how to fight and he p*ssed it on to me.
i practiced with my brothers then we took it to the block.
i went to school and found the bully,
cleaned his f*cking clock.
my mother got so angry.
she tried to raise us right.
no matter what she did to me i always loved to fight.
seneca kicked my *ss down on 4th and wallace st.
you’d think i learned my lesson but i fought him in a week.
win or lose, it’s no different.
i guess i love the energy.
i can hear my mother calling.
“come and get you boys cause they’re fighting in the street!”
i’ve made some friends across the years and a couple enemies.
i’m d own with lbu my family across the sea.
i’m not the greatest fighter and i haven’t won them all but i still can see my fathers face and hear my mother call.
i drove through my old neighborhood trying to reminisce about the places that i’ve been and faces that i miss.
i’ve learned about forgiveness and a little self-control,
but if it’s time to rumble f*ck that sh*t it’s time to f*cking go