Deep Down

[Brotha Lynch]<br>Yeah I could load a 9 up everyday, but why<br>My locc`s told me homie make them tapes<br>And keep that 24 block alive<br>But if I feel I`m in need, I got`s to ride<br>Carry a 9 for straight business, not just a side<br>Man it`s the night-mare, creepin up in the cut<br>I`m hittin dice games, barbeques, no matter what<br>The things I`ve seen`ll make ya throw up<br>Flaunt your flag, shoot your gats, hit your dank<br>Where I`m from that`s how ya grow up<br>Man it`s that wicked and 9 millimeter<br>Carrier bein stereo-typed daily<br>Ya got`s to feel me, foo it`s that baby<br>Killas run around everyday that`s why I`m strapped<br>Ya heard it I got my own back-fade<br>Out into the `lac and hit the city of Sac<br>Them homies given me that<br>But you got them fools that want a foe then<br>They wonderin why I`m carryin me a 12 gauge pump<br>Man I ain`t no punk<br>The average everyday thug that`s how it sounds<br>I`m defendin myself, and loadin that mili<br>And leaving em layin<br><br>[Chorus] X 4<br>Deep down, there`s a place for hope<br><br>[Mr. Doctor]<br>I guess it`s hard to explain why I`m feelin how I`m feelin<br>I guess I`m feelin sorrow cus my homies got some stealin<br>And foos would say that it`s my fault I bet<br>See cus I wasn`t strapped yo, but I can`t fuck my set<br>How could I know that them foos would blast?<br>Later on, on my folks<br>It`s funny how this bangin`s got its different strokes<br>I think about my loccs and how they made it<br>Though I`m stressin from the fact<br>They gotta suffer from a bullet hole<br>And Mr. Doctor just don`t have hope locc<br>It`s only been a month, since my last down partner got smoked<br>And rivals is deep, up in my city foo<br>Since I`m on the underground team, I can`t have no peace<br>My life is tore up so I guess I`m stuck<br>Yeah, I got my St. Ides, I`m turnin it up<br>To get drunk, then I post up on the street<br>While I say to myself, for the block<br>Homie rest in peace<br><br>[Chorus] X 4<br><br>[Brotha Lynch]<br>They say that ain`t the way to handle that type funk<br>But now I`m loadin up the strap, smokin on that blunt<br>Just cus the Brotha Hung is flag-up<br>What that mean, I can`t ride?<br>Why G`s up in my face, I`m bout to help them ride<br>I keep a low pro, drink the 4-0<br>And lounge until it`s time to go<br>Shinin up the forty-fo<br>Rollin up the boogey-boo, indo<br>And hopin if I should die, before I`m high<br>That they bury me in 50 pounds of chocolate thai<br>I got them homies from the south-side givin it up and<br>Them homies from the east-side slangin that stuff and<br>I`m right up in the middle tryin to hang on and<br>Tryin not to end up like them niggas doin time in the pen<br>But then again<br>I`m down for when the homies is ready to roll em up<br>You know, stick in a dark-blue cut<br>And as I`m creepin through ya set<br>Trip, don`t get caught up, shot up<br>The gardenblock locc`s, man we leave em layin<br><br>[Chorus] X 4