BUILDING BLUEPRINT

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lucky number seven

lucky number seven not ready for heaven hardly go to church
but somehow speaking to the reverend leting the weed settle in
sippin on some robutusin my eyes red but im still puffin my mind fussin
my mouth cant stop cusin its hard in these streets we got to keep husltlin
stay hidden wearing camo you gotta have enough ammo loading clips
while im the bando knoking these niggas out like kmibo or rambo
let my double barrel shotie go kablamo your lyrics flip flop like sandels
cruzin in my 82 regal gripping on the handles wearing black and white
flannels the police hate on us chicanos cause our cards aint green
and our pit bulls are mean but we hop our rides till the pigs arrive on scene
but thank the lord our pistolas are clean im barley sixteen and my mind is
older ask my older homies im a real C.T.R soldier my my bullets are cold
but my heart is colder and never talk shit split your wig real quick
ill pull my 45 out so slick empty out the mutha fucking clip make your whole
body flip this life is a trip hop in my 82 then gotta dip now im back to the lab
with my pen to my pad im feeling so rad smoking that green never ever sad

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