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    LL Cool J
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    Homicide

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    Homicide
    Released


      About "Homicide"

      Lyrics for LL Cool J - "Homicide"

      This for my man yo, word up

      "I got a 187 on the corner of Farmers boulevard in Linden."
      "Uh, drug related?"
      "The usual."

      I don't mean this in a disrespectful way
      But Columbine happens in the ghetto every day
      When the shit goes down why'all ain't got nothing to say

      He kicked the old lady's door in, threw her on the floor
      Choked her to death so she don't scream no more
      He need some white chocolate, he feel it in his bones
      He heard she refinanced and got a bank loan
      He used to mow the lawn, take the garbage out
      Now she in the closet wit a sock in her mouth
      Copped a chain, copped some crills
      Crack pipe in his windpipe, twisting like a drill
      Run around fronting, buying his men's kicks
      Gassed a broad up so she can help her rent a whip
      The other killer peeped him out flashing a knot
      A well known murderer, check the ill plot
      Call up Corey Buns, get him on the block
      Niggas gotta eat, plus he front a lot
      He came through, straight strip search
      He said I'm coming back, and I'ma put in work
      Niggas told him, hey yo, leave that shit alone
      But pride mixed with crack, had him in a zone
      Prepared for more shit than Depends
      Eyes bloodshot through a Cardier lens
      Niggas said Buns came through looking strange
      Yeah, Buns won't stay in his lane
      Aight, Buns want ghetto fame
      And caught two in the Ukraine at point blank range

      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      I don't mean this in a disrespectful way
      But Columbine happens in the ghetto every day
      When the shit goes down why'all ain't got nothing to say

      Jamaican cat, real treacherous
      Used to smuggle burners up from Texas
      Had the ill crib out in Rosedale
      Took the money from the trunk and copped a fish scale
      Chinese Jamaican, real pretty nigga
      Love puffin blunts, throwing bodies in the river
      One of the illest niggas that the world ever saw
      Used to take loaded nines and throw 'em on the floor
      He was from Brooklyn, and I don't know the block
      I met him at the flicks he commented on my rocks
      We rolled back to back, while I was slinging raps
      He was slinging crack, I was seventeen fascinated by the stacks
      Running with dangerous niggas and packing gats
      Uh, the shit thrill me, looking so clean, and living so filthy
      I heard his right hand man disappeared
      They found his bike in the street somewhere
      Conspiracy theories, niggas talking shit
      Small world, I was close to his right hand man's chick
      She kept beeping him he never called back
      When they found him in the trunk his body was jet black
      Pretty Jamaican kept doing his thing
      Him and his older brother got caught up in a sting
      Out on bail, pressure by the feds, he caught seven in the head
      What goes around, comes back around
      Nigga rest in peace when they lay ya down

      "Uh, central, your assistance is requested we have a major crisis here
      Mrs. Winthrop's cat is stuck in a tree."
      "Roger, a squad car is on the way."

      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      I don't mean this in a disrespectful way
      But Columbine happens in the ghetto every day
      When this shit goes down y'all ain't got nothing to say

      "Central, the cat has been rescued."

      In the ghetto black men are dying at alarming rates
      Walking the street is like entering a sweepstakes
      You never know if you goin' win or lose
      We walk around feeling confused and totally abused
      Can't front, I'ma millionaire living like a king
      Still feigning for that shrimp, fried rice and chicken wings
      Still feigning for the vibe, only the ghetto bring
      Pumping songs of pain only real niggas sing
      Queens finest, but there's one minus
      The bodies on the battlefield that got left behind us
      I'm sick and tired of going to wakes
      'cause niggas never look the same in the casket
      It's bugged out, they skin look like plastic
      I shed tears, but use shades to mask it
      "Mr. Media", where was you at when my man died
      When it was classified a drug related homicide
      It's like until the killer hit the suburbs
      I ain't hear nothing, not a word
      "Mr. Media", help us shed light on these homicides
      Not just Columbine, but all the time

      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide
      It's a, homicide, just a homicide

      SONGWRITERS:
      SMITH/SPIVEY/GUEDUS
      Powered and licensed by LyricFind
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