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.
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