(A. Levin, K. Abston)
Produced by Klassik
This is home, where Hip-Hop doesn't mean that you gotta rap.
I know breakers who could hollowback off a bottlecap.
Ain't sayin who's gettin up...but it's a lot of cats.
DJs put scratch into crates to make their dollars back.
Beatbox 'til the horizon snap, and the sky yawns.
Find a rooftop and baptize it with Krylon.
Duck into the darkness until the fives gone
then find a high-rise to make your name to style on.
We bumpin nothin but these Twista and Tribe songs.
Old folks tellin us we spendin our lives wrong.
We ride with it. Defy 'em with fly fitteds,
and midnight studio visits as soon as the rhyme's finished.
But some of our parents love that we got a hobby
and stay whippin' our fare cards like they Maseratis.
Flippin off the tourists wavin at us from the trolleys.
Talkin in slang I always tried to copy. Yo, cop me some....
HOOK: And I’m back like...whadown, jo?
Ayyo, Adam, why don't you ever come round more?
Know you get love soon as you touch down, so
forget college. What you wanna cut out for?
This is home.
This the home of proud parenting, flicks until the mantles thick,
cuz you don't know when death comes or how to handle it.
When friends turn into vigils, pictures, and candlesticks,
we write em gorgeous epitaphs on abandoned brick.
Campaign ‘til they’ve shown us worth.
Tag ‘til the veins of our throw-ups burst.
Crash of the waves that these shores crush first.
Handmade prayers from a storefront church.
Put it all on God, on my mama, on chief.
At a graveside, pictures of the fallen on wreaths.
Short cash, long week, long shelves, short eats,
Short words, long reach, long silence, short peace.
And I ain't even from here...like the guns here.
Like the planes and the trains and the drugs here.
I'm just a suburbanite who used to come here
Cuz the only home that I felt love was here.
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