Ain't from the streets of Compton.
Ain't from no prison yard.
Ain't got no guns or weapons.
Hell, nigga, I ain't hard.
I'd rather help than fight you.
I'd rather hug than swing.
I know where diamonds come from and ain't about to bling.
Ain't got no fancy car. I can't afford my rent.
Ain't even got my own style. Sometimes I'm 50 Cent.
But I ain't got not bullets. And I ain't bullet proof.
And you can take your aim, but you can't kill the truth.
Ay, yo, untie that noose. Son, we ain't free, we're loose.
I'm sleeping on the floor above your party's burning roof.
And when that party's through, here's what you need to do.
Just hold that mic right to your heart and hear the beat of you.
I got a heart beat produced by God, and, boy, it sounds hard.
I got heart beat produced by God, and, boy, it sounds hard.
