Album:I AmBroken glass in the hallway, bloodstained floorsNeighbors, look at every bag you bring through your doorsLock the top lock, momma shoulda cuffed me to the radiatorWhy not? It might\'ve saved later from my blockN.Y. cops, hookers crawlin off the stroll, coughinstitches in they head, stinkin and I dread thinkin they be snitchinBut who else, could it be, shook at these, unmarked vansParked in the dark -- NARC\'s, where\'s your heart?Hustlers starve; they bust a U-e I jogto my building -- come out later wearin camouflageSee the sergeant and the captain -- strangle menNiggaz gaspin for air; til they move no more and just starewith dead eyes -- tired of riots, shit is quietSimple-minded fools infiltrate grimy crewsOvercrowded cribs, uncles home from bids, sister\'s pregnantfather\'s on drugs, moms is smokin, beds is piss-infestedHad eight partners growin up, eight turned to sevenSeven turned to six niggaz, got two in heavenSix of us, holdin it, now it\'s five rollin thickThe sixth one\'s parole flipped; five niggaz, went to fo\' quickwhen he went O.T., college life, converted into gangbanginFour niggaz still hangin, years passed and slang changinThree of us now, fourth nigga ain\'t aroundWe all thought he was real -- he did the snake shitFake shit -- beat his ass down, yo his mouthcould\'ve got us all wasted, what a fuckin clownAll I got left in the end is two of my best friendsAnd we all goin out, to the death for these ends, WHAT?I\'m at the, gamblin spot, my hands on a knot \nNew York Yankee cap cover my eyes, stand in one spot \nI take a nigga dough, send him home, to a shoebox \nYou lost that nigga I put your dollar in the jukebox \nHear my favorite song, all these niggaz sing along \nAll the ciggarette smoke\'s cloggin my lungs, hoodrats flashin they tongue \nYoung thugs blastin they gun, we got reputations \nBitches and niggaz both on parole or probation \nShit is sick, niggaz got gats, army fatigues \nI got my eyes glued on, whoever walk in the lead \nCause I ain\'t playin, niggaz\'ll run up in here and shoot up this shit \nStick yo\' ass up, niggaz\'ll find the loot in your kicks \nBunch of triple-cross niggaz, just New York niggaz \nLift you off your feet when they was just talkin with you \nSome of these dudes the Feds be on em, you knew em for years \nBe the type when you walk in a pub, they offer you beers \nThat ain\'t gangsta, niggaz is up North with tatted tears \nYour name\'s on the affadavit, you ratted kid \nFaggot-ass niggaz that be scared to do they bids \nFuck you, we run you out of N.Y, you can\'t live \nGot your quiet niggaz, that relocated down South \ncomin back to floss, then you got the jealous loudmouths \nAll of a sudden we got Crips and Bloods, D.T.\'s \nrunnin round quick to split your mug, it\'s ea-sy to score \nbut it\'s hard to get the shit off \nNiggaz fightin over hundred sales, jump in the car and drive off \nWhen the fiend come around the block, happy as hell \nNiggaz, mad cause they ain\'t get a pieceof that sale \nCutthroat connivers, universal, ghetto survivors \nGo to any hood that\'s live and make it liver \nA lot of niggaz scheamin, some real, some niggaz frontin \nBut I\'m a big dreamer, so watch me come up with somethin am, II, Mind, Nas, New, of, oldskoolrap, State, York