[Intro: Solomon Childs]
Aiyo, son, it's some new n***as coming in there, homey
Just see what they got in there... got one p.c. on, whatever ya'll
n***as get, man
Ya'll n***as get the new, hurtin' n***as, man
Yo, one of them n***as smell like d**, son
I'm tellin' you, man, yo, son I want p.c., man, word
[Chorus 3X: sample]
Oh mama, I can hear you crying
You're so scared, and all alone...
[Solomon Childs]
What's the deal, homey? What's going down?
Looks like you got a lotta food and clothes
Cuz in your last house, you was holding it down
Oh, two state blankets, balled up
That's really big, so let's get to the point
You coming off of something, you dig?
And your mans from New York, we don't know 'em, and never heard of 'em
And I don't give a f** what hood you from
I am Staten Island, like King Just with the Warrior's Drum
In the phones, you should have no parts of
By the way, we need your pin number, before the next chair line supper
And also, what size was those J.O.'s?
Big Den been wondering, and he specialize in K.O.'s
So take a sh**, let's see what you got in your a**
Cuz you smell like d**, and you look like you hold rugs
Quiet... didn't they inform you about p.c.?
Protective custody, where you can live like a gangsta
Walk like a gangsta, talk like a gangsta
Ain't never gotta come within fifty feet of a real gangsta
No, oh well, so take heed, as they walk out of your cell with your belongings
The tension will build up, morning after morning
And you just might wanna jump off
When one of your mans, come through the doors from New York
So remember, it was done, by organization
And that's how it will continue, so they will leave out of here leaking
As well as you too...
[Chorus 3X]