[Intro: Big Rube]

Y'all already know what it is

Big Rube, S.W.A.T. Zone 4

Y'all cats wanna go in circles and do the same thing over and over

Well, this the revolver

How you comin' up when you fall for the trap?

Got the dope game fucked off, now you tryna murk rap

True success comes from work, fuck understanding, know that

Ain't none niggas servin' dubs gon' get rich off one pack

How many sacks? How many stacks?

Don't matter, this ain't 'bout that

It's 'bout the illness of the spirit 'caused by the realness niggas lack

Recidivism is the schism that's become an achilles we can't heal

Why the sounds of our blackness has turned into white noise that we can't feel?

I'd never knowingly endorse a purchase of some shit that was created by those without skill

Life teaches this lesson:

Originality and talent are two things that you can't steal

Dead for real, this ain't no game

Your ass could end up dead for real

This endless cycle of ridiculousness is what we need to kill

Yet in still, we didn't instill, with thoughts counteracted the heaven as live

So that same bullshit we been programmed with is all we have to give

Revolving around the same snubnose we can't see until they pull it

It's the epitome of ignorance 'cause only a fool plays Russian roulette with six bullets

Gone

[Verse: GRIP]

All black hoodie on, feelin' like Trayvon

But this time I got the gun drawn

Nigga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you)

Nigga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you)

Nigga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you)

Nigga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you)

Nigga you can get sprayed on (You, you, you, you)

Wish a nigga would tell me to run my pockets

I'ma pop it, locked and loaded, I ain't gotta cock it

Bodies droppin', call the cops and Johnnie Cochran

Niggas bleeding, hope the doc can stop it

Bustin' shots at all the opps that's plottin', mama screamin'

Sirens singing, paramedics, where's he headed

Pray thee, will he make it? Maybe

Seventeen, he's still a baby, life is faded, family prayin'

Partner sayin' "Load the yopper"

If we spot who shot you, we gon' drop them

Papa blocked a blocka at his casa

Turned his top to pasta, pop his poppa

Murk his mama, bleed his brothers, smoke his sister

Pour some liquor, postin' pictures

Quote we missed her all on Insta pointin' pistols like

On God we'll avenge you

(We'll avenge you)

(We'll avenge you)

(We'll avenge you)

(We'll avenge you)

(We'll avenge you)

(We'll avenge you)

[Outro: GRIP]

*gunshot*

The cycle continues