Low Profile Gangsters - Now They Don't Ask lyrics

[Lil' Rob] Remember every year, before the fair We'd gather up the homeboys and we were always there To go down, it was sort of like tradition The first day, always had to get a fist in It's funny thinking back cuz we were only kids then Sixteen years old, sitting at the Sheriff station Detained, what's your nickname, what gang you claim? It's the same as last year officer, it's all the same Lil' Rob had fun while it lasted Who would have thought at eighteen I'd get blasted Once in the face, got a taste of the bullet And that's on the real, I got the scars to prove it I don't have to prove sh**, that ain't no bullsh** I did what I did, and that's the way I used to do it Eighteen with the bullet, living my life foolish The day I saw my mom cry was the day I lost my coolness [Chorus x2: Frank V (Lil' Rob)] Cuz now they don't ask where you're from no more (Where you from ese?) They just roll along side and pump slugs in your car door (f** it homeboy) So I don't ask nothing either (Trucha) I just reach under my seat and heat em up with my heater [Frank V] Before you see me retire You'll see gun fire From a big barrel Desert Eagle, not a sparrow Ese you don't know me for sh**, so stop thinking that Liquor got you pumped up, you need to stop drinking that Cuz ese we k** for real, try and feel Before they find your remains on my Coupe Deville grill I'm still crazy after all these years All these beers, all the blood, sweat, and all these tears That were shed, for all the homies that are dead Fell victim to lead, I could give up, but instead I rode that much harder when I'm out on the bricks For every one they take of mine, I'm taking out six b**h Starting off with you, then k**ing the rest of your punk a** crew So you better run fast Cuz those Low Pro Gangsters got some shells for that a** [Chorus x2] [Royal T] Six in the morning, haters at my door Fresh Nikes squeeking by the bathroom floor Out my back window, I made my escape Haters know I'm in my loof from the fresh mixtape They try to rush my spot Try to take what I got I'm Royal T and my heater stay hot .45 to be exact Three clips in the mack Bust shot after shot while I'm under attack [Yogi] I used to sport Cortez with my black cascade In Junior High, hella high, getting the bad grades Always squabbing with them fools from around the way Cross your clique out and I leave my name Four door Caprice Cla**ic, semi-automatic Don't get dramatic, fool I'll let you have it Sweat on mi cara, bumping Santana Jumping out the ranfla, fill you full of balas [Chorus x2]