Rick Ross - Game Ain't Based On Sympathy lyrics

"Reminiscing on that, uh… I remember they used to give us that free cheese... A big block of that sh** Yeah, man I'm glad y'all ain't gotta get that cheese Man, I thank God my kids ain't gotta see that cheese Yo, you know what I'm saying? You gotta feed it to them raw. Feel me?" Renovating the ghettoes, moving me elsewhere Daddy didn't see pension they took his healthcare Affordable housing and they fed us welfare Showed us Tony Montana, teachers couldn't care less A young prince in Miami, son of a pharaoh This is deeper than raps, I can't run from the echoes And I hear the screams Under my mattress box springs, I still see the C.R.E.A.M Mac 11 next to Grammy invitations I'm never quiet, tell my n***as all my aspirations No more beefing with rappers It's just murder or nothing New positions to master, I perfected the others n***as shoot for the Magic, never heard of Matumbo These are lucrative a**ets, golden words that will mumble you This the biggest... Corner store was the stage, I needed management In a mansion that I could squeeze another phantom in Negative people just seem to fail first I said I'm a genius, put in the legwork You step to my n***as, suggest you stay alert No, I've never been lenient, nor a man of mercy I stick my dick in her tell her my net worth Then we stare at each other and see who catch first A pretty chick, she resembles Stacy Dash If it was her, she had to kiss my feet and lick my a** p**y n***a want war, til' it's "bonjour" Those hitters sitting a bomb outside your mom door Got your people alarmed cause we the armed force Easy as leaking a song before I go on tour Uh Gang violence ongoing, let's fight our own wars Chicago been out of hand, the city lost its soul Funeral every weekend or either you cremated Homie's son, he been murdered, he didn't seem faded Holding guns on the gram, out of my league baby Real k**ers and hitters would rather live nameless I got a homie I know with a twenty body count Maybe once or twice a month he leave the house Older brother, type to get a curly perm Pappy Mason type respect for holding thirty birds Never was a gangster, I just wanted in No longer could I deny that I wanted a Benz b**by gave me blessings and a root for me to win I showed him my ambition in two different fields Also, said I was a rapper, b**by here it is Real talk my n***a, here it is