L A T I M E S, P T. I I

It ain't what you know, it's who you know And I know I'll be that nigga til my fuckin funeral I've been in my bag, posted up at the studio With the squad, off some dank and some Don Julio Bitch, I've been rolling through the city of the lost angels Neutral niggas getting mixed in with them raw bangers Out of sight, out of mind Life harder than some jaw breakers Finding Christ, dying, I just wonder will our God take us Speeding fast, every block got them car races And most these bitches lookin bad like Sanaa Lathan I gained a friend in you when I lost patience I know some niggas behind bars waiting Get stuck for them fast bucks, we was palm aiding Going to jail off crime For that clout, niggas dying tryna sell they rhymes In the nick of time, I started to realize most these niggas lying Better pay attention to that LA Times It's some niggas getting richer, while the poor getting broker But what's a house without a home? A pen without no notebook? If family just disown us, know our poppa's never want us Momma's never sober, got us rolling off the yola, mix it with the baking soda 2020, F*ck Corona Push the Benz like a Corolla In the bucket, hitting donuts Let me crash around the corner