Low Profile

How Ya Livin'

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(The beat is dope)
(Word to the mother)
(Ah yeah)
(And it goes a little somethin like this)
(Good God)
(The beat is dope)
(Word to the mother)
(And it goes a little somethin like this)

[ VERSE 1: W.C. ]
How ya livin, a brother kill another for a color
Now his family's forced to sit and suffer
Gang violence strikes again, the sound of a trigger
News at 11, now it's one less nigger, they figure
Self-destruction, bro, you're goin low
How can you kill a person you don't really even know?
In jail you played hard until one slapped you silly
Turned you over like a girlie and rode you like a sissy
Trapped behind bars in the middle of nowhere
Doin 10 to 20, braid another brother's hair
On the streets you was dope, you wasn't a joke
Nobody could cope, you was the king of the dope
Shoot a brother in a minute, man, that was your duty
But now you're in jail, just givin up the booty
Spread em, I'ma show you what it's like in a jail
I kick reality, this ain't a crickett fairytale
You said you had heart, homeboy, how do you figure
Can you prove it without keeping your finger on the trigger?
You'se a punk, a peon, a buster, bound to run
Never usin your fist, always grabbin a gun
Trigger-happy with the gat, brain stiffer than a manakin
Shot an old lady, but you claim it was a accident?
Drop the sawed-off, you must be illin
I got a question, homes, how ya livin?

[ VERSE 2: W.C. ]
The beat is dope, so I come off smooth, no need to yell it
Now what I seen on the streets, I gotta tell it
Smokers on the corner at the rock house shack
Tryin to scuffle up some money for a 10 piece crack
And this is critical, pitiful, life has become more difficult
Children on the corner holdin automatic pistols
Taught and trained at a young age to kill another
But the bad thing about it is, we're killin each other
Brothers killin brothers over man-made material
It's a like a epidemic, better yet venereal
Only if you knew that we was dominant original
We'd be prepared mentally as well as physical
Some say to make it though, it's gonna take a miracle
But they can't hold you back, brother, when you're spirtitual
Drop the 40 ounce, you must be illin
Yo Aladdin, break it down while I ask em how they're livin

Let me tell you bout this crackhead I know

[ VERSE 3: W.C. ]
Booby was a crackhead smokin that dust
Like a fool, he was a sucker I never could trust
Used to let him in my house, he didn't need no permission
Until my goddamn VCR came up missin
Sprung on the pipe like a fish on a hook
Yo, Booby got labelled as a neighborhood crook
Seen him with a color TV in his hand
Walkin down the streets sparked, lookin for the dopeman
Skinny as hell from just hittin the pipe
Lost his job, his two kids, the beautiful wife
He'd sell his mother if you gave him a chance
Long as Booby got a piece of crack in his hands
Hey yo, you know what's sad, or should I say it's a shame?
The way see-are-a-see-k destroys the brain
Think - somebody want to see these things
Another dumb brother just smokin cocaine
Suckin up crack until your lips turn purple
>From rehab to rehab, you're runnin in a circle
It's mandatory I touch this category
That's why I made it simple, self-explanatory
It shouldn't take long for me to state what's on my mind
Why should I sit and write a 10-minute-long rhyme?
Hey yo, drop the 40 ounce, you must be illin
So I conclude this rhyme with how ya livin?

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