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    Yeah, yeah, yeah
    You was born in the eighties, pops drove a Mercedes
    Did a bid, coming home to some grown ass kid
    Crack baby turn to young thug, description might fit you
    Look around it might hit you
    No joke, I wanna pistol fight with you
    Shit comes around faster than you think
    Blood and white chalk makes pink, so what's that make you?
    Become a creature of habitat, the average cat
    Won't see where it's at, or where it's going
    The hood waits for no one
    I've been through it from Ewings to Buicks, to body viewings
    Car chases to court cases, to fly vacations
    From wanting it all, to being the object of your admiration
    Imagination is what they lack
    It stops niggaz from getting stacks
    feeling trapped on the block with loose cracks
    Wisdom is vital for the survival of the street's disciple

    "From the day you were born" (Olu Daru sample)
    "Starring out, a young disciple" (Nas Sample)
    "You had that gleam in your eye" (Olu Daru sample)
    Disciple of the projects!
    "From the day you were born" (Olu Daru sample)
    "Street's Disciple" (Nas Sample)
    "Disciple of the projects" (Olu Daru sample)

    Moonstruck stuck, slow as molasses in my actions
    That's compliments of a fast spliff in the night life
    In my flight jacket, adrenaline heightened, mimickin Tyson
    after watchin him cut up Razor Ruddock
    In the gutter, which was once ghetto prophecy is now ghetto scripture
    Lookin back at it, blowjobs from pretty crack addicts
    Older Gods wantin no static, told some lil' niggaz they can have it
    Coke baggin and toe-taggin
    They took Will, let me describe him, a live one
    I think that he was the true +God's Son+ - not Jesus, but fearless
    His ear was up on them sounds too, he'd hear somethin
    not to his likin, and say 'Son they bitin you"
    He never got to see my debut, wild-mannered
    But wild with them hammers, niggaz frontin couldn't stand it
    Took him off the planet, left us in 9-2
    With the philosophy of what arms do, a true street's disciple


    Plug the mics up, I'm ready to rock, knocking
    Reminiscing of measuring pots of Pyrex, cook in the kitchen
    Captain Hook to these infants
    It's like my folks is still on the benches
    Surrounded by villains and henchmen, was a killer convention
    1991, son, gold fronts on the facial, gun buck by the naval
    Disciple could blaze you, we laced it with embalming fluid
    Rhyming to music all this time
    Fighting 'bout how Kane and Rakim would do it
    Seemed impossible to us that we could ever leave
    From the block, where the world was forever freezing
    Hell if I ever let them shovel me, son, in this cell again
    Fuck these devil policemen, plush leathers, I need them
    Risking my freedom, burners in bubble coats
    Fuck a sermon from the neighborhood pope
    He's sexing ho's, old fart, he's busting ones when he stroke
    Multi-colored Pelle Pelle's, young stretch mark bellies
    Babies born in a cycle, future disciples


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