billy woods - The Things They Carried lyrics
[billy woods - The Things They Carried lyrics]
These are the things they
Carried: duct tapes, thirty-eights
And nigga merry
To the toast, they that close
But now he ghost slow with the steel
Scully ran from the blood spilled
A pocket of crumpled bills
Sock full of crills
Dreams of a house on the hill
The number of a girl named Paula
Written on back of a dollar
She still waiting for him to call
Met her at the mall
She had on her favorite lipstick
She got two babies
Little boy is six, baby girl always sick
Never seen her father
She used to visit but why bother
He caught a big case
Remember when boo got shot in the face
The same cat
Feds hit his place, the kid had a key a base
Six stolen guns
Time he got tons, clock creep concurrent
Home made hot plate
Of new burners, shoes with no laces
Pictures of faraway faces
Dog-eared over the years, counting
Your shoe pillow, Voice tears
A BGS spare for some kings
On the tear, New Years, Pre-nup prepared
No hope, no fear, neither belonging here
Letter from his mama
They just run into each other
His cellmate nickname Butta
Talk with a stutter, so he mutter
Got a little brother out in Brooklyn
Used to watch Butta get coke cooking
Now he g’d up, in and out central booking
Didn’t no one notice them cats looking
‘bout to get his work tooken
Step to ‘em on that note
Little bro tried to go in his coat
First shot hit him in the throat
They stripped his chain
Couldn’t find the coke
And these are the things he carried
And these are the things he carried
To all my peoples, you know what I’m saying
Going in the streets man, it’s me next
You know what I’m saying, spitamatics
Ashford Hill, Georgia Forest
Weston, Euclid Street, North West DC
Fuck is you talking ‘bout
BK’s 150th and 7th Ave nigga, we here now
Carried: duct tapes, thirty-eights
And nigga merry
To the toast, they that close
But now he ghost slow with the steel
Scully ran from the blood spilled
A pocket of crumpled bills
Sock full of crills
Dreams of a house on the hill
The number of a girl named Paula
Written on back of a dollar
She still waiting for him to call
Met her at the mall
She had on her favorite lipstick
She got two babies
Little boy is six, baby girl always sick
Never seen her father
She used to visit but why bother
He caught a big case
Remember when boo got shot in the face
The same cat
Feds hit his place, the kid had a key a base
Six stolen guns
Time he got tons, clock creep concurrent
Home made hot plate
Of new burners, shoes with no laces
Pictures of faraway faces
Dog-eared over the years, counting
Your shoe pillow, Voice tears
A BGS spare for some kings
On the tear, New Years, Pre-nup prepared
No hope, no fear, neither belonging here
Letter from his mama
They just run into each other
His cellmate nickname Butta
Talk with a stutter, so he mutter
Got a little brother out in Brooklyn
Used to watch Butta get coke cooking
Now he g’d up, in and out central booking
Didn’t no one notice them cats looking
‘bout to get his work tooken
Step to ‘em on that note
Little bro tried to go in his coat
First shot hit him in the throat
They stripped his chain
Couldn’t find the coke
And these are the things he carried
And these are the things he carried
To all my peoples, you know what I’m saying
Going in the streets man, it’s me next
You know what I’m saying, spitamatics
Ashford Hill, Georgia Forest
Weston, Euclid Street, North West DC
Fuck is you talking ‘bout
BK’s 150th and 7th Ave nigga, we here now