作曲 : Nasir Jones/Chauncey Hollis Jr

Yeah

When Carlito was dying

He see the shadow of his girl dancing with the baby

Like **** it it’s my time

But if God save me

Maybe I’ll erase any vice that could potentially bring harm to me

Before I make a move I think about it karmically

Everything come back like a boomerang

I’m black as Paul Mooney slang

And all I pray for is health and a sustainable business and a faithful missus

I see a lotta people try to be who they ain’t

We don’t want money that fit in the bag we want the bank

Just to spread it around, like icing on the cake

White tiger in a cage, Mike Tyson in ‘88

Dedicated like jack boys on Melrose

Smash and grab, yo this world became a hell hole

“Stay cool” is what I tell those, (word) youngin’s

So they don’t end up in jail clothes, c’mon

HOOK

I dedicated my life my life

Dedicated my life my life

I dedicated my my, uh (yo that is inspiration)

Dedicated my

VERSE 2

Whole damn life

If I wanted to now I could live an old man life

Confronted with how the hood can use more funding

More budgets for more teachers

Financial literacy, more speeches

Chefs come cook for me

Look what it took for me

The streets had its hooks in me

Yeah

People ask me what books to read

Destruction of black civilization, that’s history

Journal of Chris Columbus, that is what interests me

Juneteenth holiday finally came and it pisses me

Off, for the fact that we came in chains

You’ll be physically in pain

Dedicated like Ricky Walters, Dougie and Dana Dane

HOOK

I dedicated my life my life

Dedicated my life my life

I dedicated my, uh

Dedicated my

I dedicated my life my life

Dedicated my life my life

I dedicated my

VERSE 3

Test, test, yeah, yunno

To get to this point

I might have to write a script, a manuscript

Yo, yo, ghetto manners is you thuggin’ me or asking?

Finessin’ me or pressin’ me, well none of that is happenin’

Accessory to murder not necessarily Manson

I’m just a G in constructs a Pelle Pels or a Vanson

Ratty clothes we haven’t spoke in years, pat his coat

Check his waistline, he spyin’ on who has the most

Best to leave me alone, I get in my zone

Laughin’ with African presidents while over the phone

Shit be feeling like the last days, cash made

Mirrors on the ceiling with a bad babe

Same age with niggas be having mad grays

Million Man March with real niggas never last place

Blazin’ gats like young Haitian Jack

Me and money go together like the 80’s and crack

Shorty aura like Kimora rockin’ Baby Phat

I’m droppin bars nigga like I’m on stage with smack

To my niggas who have staples from the navel up

Healed up, had to chill a while, lay in the cut

Shorty tried to wop me down in the Mercedes truck

Pulled up, cobblestone ground in my palatial hut

Paradis for niggas still doing deals in the street

Original Backwoods I fill ‘em with green

Am I a musician? Or am I a magician?

No tricks, just real shit, straight out the kitchen

Pure magic

No tricks, no tricks

No tricks

No tricks, pure mag