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letra de what's hood - breez evahflowin'

breez evahflowin’ ft. main the villan and el juba – “what’s hood”
[emcee(s): main the villan (aka cuzzo main), el juba, and breez evahflowin’]
[producer(s): dj static]

[intro: main the villan (aka cuzzo main)]
yo, i want to preach to ‘em. sometimes, i’ll let them preach. yo, listen

[verse 1: main the villan (aka cuzzo main)]
gangster? nah. i just want my own flame
carry my hood on my back, and, no, it won’t change
suitcase city’s streets flooded with cocaine
mama’s superman—some daddies taking the lois lane
(d-mn) so insane. so-and-so grow in pain
raps or the packs, we’re just trying to be the dopest, mayne
young boy heart number than the novocain
shot from the dart that they used to fix the molar pain
(d-mn) reparations, but they don’t want to hold the blame
(no they don’t) these crooked devils acting like they don’t owe a thing
they taught us the gang mentality
uncle sam, scorpion gang fatality
(“get over here!”) yeah, d-ck dame, evade felony
“we’re all lazy” what they claim while they’re taxing me
invest, spend less, stress ownership
el juba, breez evahflowin’, and soldiers

[hook: all]
what’s hood? what’s hood? what’s the demo? what’s the demo?
let me know if we got a problemo. ayyo
from suitcase city to new jerus’
all my west coast crews, all my east coast crews
what’s hood? what’s hood? what’s the demo? what’s the demo?
let me know if we got a problemo. ayyo
from suitcase city to new jerus’
all my midwest crews, all my down-south crews
what’s hood?

[verse 2: el juba]
every hood i ever known had trees, bars
goons, liquor, couple of future superstars
church, dogs, mierda, mosca
hierb’. “stop, chris. don’t try to resist.” swish
hoopers, hustlers. used to be cyphers with
freestyles that i, juba, usually never missed
now it’s street vendor rappers—no disc—‘cause
they’re probably watching cash like goodfellas, the selfish
just angles. gangsters that play ‘em, i either spray ‘em
junkies in the pm staying up ‘til the am
bangers living for colors like damon wayans
they’re slain for violations. these players is not playing
there’s still folks in nice homes that pay bills
and k!llers with a stare that give granny the chills
when we -ssemble, jack, we keep it moving nimble
‘cause the boys’ll crash a party like a cymbal

[verse 3: breez evahflowin’]
yo, at 9, i’m awoke. ran outside, seen the smoke
from the spot where the world trade center once poked
i’m up on one-four-tray lenox
before the gray, twelve blocks up from
probe and swave. i’ll never forget it
though not from that ghetto, that ghetto stay embedded. to
her credit, mama hustled unapologetic on some
“gotta get it.” got it, brought it home by any means
many schemes. men broke many dreams. close
to nothing, she still made something out of anything
between welfare and sweeping some floors up
clipping coupons, we’d creep a few doors up
as if the memory be making her nauseous
heard stories of fieldwork and sleeping on floor dust
kind of sh-t pushed us to florida. hard
blizz’, scribbling this rhyme in my yard
them food stamps forced my kind to go hard
still kind inside just like that time on the boulevard
when everybody spoke truth and act kind
to everybody on the block like it’s the last time
regardless of professional pastime, past [?]
or past crime, at that time, we was united
and overcame the states that divide us for a time
‘til ollie miller stepped up online
yo, what’s hood?

- breez evahflowin

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