Текст пісні Made It Home - Sauce Walka

Made It Home

Starin' at my past through the window pane\nShackled to the bus seat of the Blue Bird after catching chain\nPull up to the unit, break of dawn, morning, wind or rain\nCuffs freezing my wrists, I’m locked in shame over the set I bang\nHit the bowling alley, five offenders already know my name\nAin’t even classified yet, my name louder than five jets\n'Cause I was in my city leavin' blood on niggas' pyrex\nPistol whippin' niggas' big homies, startin' up dry plex\nFive months into my sentence I had a cellphone, sendin' dry texts\nAnd two female guards on my dick bringin' the drop, next\nDropped a couple niggas and I ran the cellblock, next\nI had to learn some skills, Muslims showed me how to block, next\nNow I’m transportin' contraband all in my sock, next\nHow easy we touch free world drugs, I thought rock’s next\nI never cared for football games, dominos, hot chess\n'Cause they’ll be the reason one of these bitch niggas get dropped next\nStabbed up or popped next\nPoker in my long-john sweats just in case a riot pop off at rec\nI’ma split a nigga neck for my respect, that’s a Nike check\nI gotta go home after this, Jordan in Charlotte\nMy family in the freeway know me, who gon' pay the rent?\nMy daddy livin' check to check and child support take half of that\nBackpay, and I been livin' with him since the fourth grade\nThe government ain’t shit\nThey charge the father just 'cause the mama say\nBut they don’t even take the time out to find where the mama stay\n'Cause Mama ain’t raise me a half a day past age seven man\nBut still I’m Mayweather, man\nIn them streets, I had my racks up\nFor 3 years in the pen, that shit run dry when shit get backed up\nWhen them hoes don’t send no money, block they calls, and start to act up\nWhen your niggas can’t send you money 'cause they strugglin', and that’s jacked\nup\nThat’s what they need you back for\nWhole time this the same reason you in here shacked up\nThis whole cycle is smacked up\nAnd it’s time for rack up, I’m sleepin' in the hellhole\nI ain’t got a letter in four months so I gotta shell soul\nI should’ve been a lawyer or doctor or a nigga that sell gold\nBut instead my dumb ass was in the streets lettin' them shells blow\nNow I’m wearin' field yard boots, no Guccis and shelltoes\nTryna get a sick pass, we out here workin' with scarecrows\nI always knew that I would touch down and go hit Melrose\nBut I never knew that I would touch down and start to sell hoes\nDrop a couple quick rap songs, now I can sell clothes\nI told my PO I’ma make it, but she ain’t think so\nSneakin' codeine in my system, that’s why I blink slow\nAlmost piss dirty, I’m thankful the Lord spared me\nI used to pray a lot but I swear that he never heard me\n'Cause every time I jumped in the whip, the law swerved me\nBut every time I went on that trip, I dodged jerseys\nThe penal system made me a legend like James Worthy\nI came back with too much game and too sturdy\nNow I’m buyin' the same cars as the plugs, with no birdies\nI tried to put my whole clique on and they all burnt me\nBut I let that shit roll off my shoulders because it learnt me\nI found my lane and stayed on the bitch because she turned me\nI made my first hundreds of thousands and got a surgery\nI made it home\nHaha, ooh-wee, yeah