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