Pages of My Life - Kool G Rap

Just because the boy do or die livin'

Like he was born in Bed Stuy, 45 liftin'

Niggas, get this guy twisted

He slide clips in

This one for my Queens niggas that died pitchin'

I was subjected to hood shit in ma’s kitchen

Pop’s cock would pump in her while she fried chicken

I’m three years old standing there wit' my eyes drippin'

Swinging little fists on him, but only die hittin'

And that small rage I had only made him laugh

Years later moms would tell me that’s what saved her ass

Memory lane pain deep as a razor slash

Had a baby sister that die young her name was Robyn

She went to sleep when the grim reaper was cradle rockin'

Over my right shoulder here I got a angel watchin'

I poured my heart on the paper with the table wobblin'

Moms thank you for the time you was in labor droppin'

It probably never occurred that you would raise a Hopkins

Far from the mood for games that’s the state I’m not in

Suffered long enough, it’s time for something major poppin'

Yeah I’m a make sure they get me right (right, dog)

Flip through the pages of my life

See the scars were some chose to stick the knife

On some real shit, these are the pages of my life

Born fighter I’m sticking to the script, precise

Can’t play fair here, you got to fix the dice

Lost everything I love tryin' a grip it tight

Decided to write the real pages of my life

Middle chapter, age eleven was a little bastard

Unlike kids my age, wanted to fizzle faster

With the older gang, to join a house robbery

And wasn’t scared a the Doberman in they property (nah, dog)

Til' this day that’s why the real niggas rock wit' me

E-Z Wider paper is were I drop the weed

OE 800, who want it?

99th and 106 we’re straight gunners (Wassup, yo)

Nat a little nigga but his heart was humongous

My older man frogged in the schoolyard in summer

Later he blew the face off Jake, he doin' numbers

Most of y’all know how the Queens do to coppers

Rastas hit up Taisheen wit' a chopper

At sixteen was on the scene to prosper

That’s when a nigga moved back from Iraq then

Back to Corona (no doubt)

Back to home base (word up)

From a place that made me a little grown-er

But would never forget the PJs

It’s twelve days

Fat Steve Kellay (ay!)

Shorty rock LA (What up?)

Mauri Croc’s, Pelle

When I ring the top bell, ay!

Brrap my back in the day shorty in 12A

The best rapper from the hood that’s were the belt stays

Yeah I’m a make sure they get me right (right, dog)

Flip through the pages of my life

See the scars were some chose to stick the knife

On some real shit, these are the pages of my life

Born fighter I’m sticking to the script, precise

Can’t play fair here, you got to fix the dice