Lyrics:

Yea
Obie Trice
Real name no gimmicks
I came in the game profane no image
I came in the game with the name I was given from a mang
Who didn't give a fuck about his chil'den

I proclaim the name though
Never in vain no
Watch the change grow
A young nigga who didn't gain from fame
Cock the Range Ro'
Now they want my brains on the main road

But they don't understand what I came fo'
How I came forth with a million sold
Who say you can't grow from mildew and mold
Gettin money like Ross Perot

I'm often told
A cough is the routes I go
O that's the road you on oh no!
I'm down for the rifle tone, the 4-4
Don't even try to send a nigga home ( no no! )

I know you wanna catch me at Sunoco
Show me that you're loco
Put holes in my photo
Nope!
Ope!
Hold toast no jokes then slugs through your polo

Just cause O a thug roll solo
And pose on grown fo' be a cold negro
Below
You grieved up people
Believe that the boy see no evil

--(Chorus)--
Oh O!
I had you yellin' out when I bagged the thirty thirty rifle
Oh O!
Too late for niggas to get religious and start readin they bible
Oh O!
See you can tell like the niggas be pickin the dirty cycle
Oh O!
see you should make peace insted of making me become a phycho
---

I visualized it
O Trice at twenty-five survived it
Bright but violent
Invite the violence
Fist fight a firemen
Be a tyrant to these niggas nice and silent

O Trice from a triph environment
He rocks the mic no sign of retirin
Maybe want the bank accounts like Leviathan
I'm in position to hire up clients spend

Meanwhile I'm a virus like Iverson
The nigga cross over
Europeans admirin'
And the soldiers is tirin'
I ain't buyin
Motherfuckers actin like they denyin him

Who tryin a nigga
Who views biased
I figure your crew tired
My trigger introduces violence

Produce them sirens
You on the spittle
Orange juice and vitamins nigga

--Chorus--

A derelict who inherited hustle
My heritage married the street struggle
Like a couple of great uncs ago

So this blood streams through my nuts
Seems like I wasn't in touch when the teacher asked fo'
Na I was just a preacher in O
Seat on the bleachers and flip coke
The only reach I got through my dome
Niggas gaffle so they gotta be chrome
Pulled to win the raffle so I scramble with the track and the phones

Fuck a actin the clone
This is actual happenings
That's factual back at my home
This is rap but I ain't rappin so you clap in the zone
Think I'm trapped into actin for the sake of performin?

This is your warnin'
Run up on em wrong
And your tissue is burnin a hundred degrees warm
O Treezies gone
My nigga Bust bring da hook back in for 'em

--Chorus--