Lyrics
Ten years ago I used to listen to rappers flow
Talkin' bout the way they rocked the mic at the disco
I liked how that shit was goin' down
Dreamt about ripping the mic with my own sound
So I tried to write rhymes something like them
My boys said, «That ain’t you, Ice! That shit sounds like them.»
So I sat back, thought up a new track
Didn’t fantasize, kicked the pure facts
Motherfuckers got scared cause they was unprepared
Who would tell it how it really was? Who dared?
A motherfucker from the West Coast, L. A
South Central, fool, where the Crips and the Bloods play
When I wrote about parties, it didn’t fit
«6 N' the Mornin,» that was the real shit
O.G. Original Gangster
When I wrote about parties, someone always died
When I tried to write happy, yo, I knew I lied
'Cause, I lived a life of crime Why play ya blind?
A simple look and anyone with two cents would know I’m
A hardcore player from the streets
Rapping bout hardcore topics over hardcore drum beats
A little different than the average though
Jet you through the fast lane, drop ya on death row
Cause anybody who’s been there knows that
Life ain’t so lovely on the blood-soaked fast track
That invincible shit don’t work
Throw ya in a joint, you’ll be coming out feet first
So I blast the mic with my style
Sometimes I’m ill and other times buckwild
But the science is always there
I’d be a true sucker if I acted like I didn’t care
I rap for brothers just like myself
Dazed by the game in a quest for extreme wealth
But I kick it to you hard and real
One wrong move, and your cap’s peeled
I ain’t no super hero, I ain’t no Marvel comic
But when it comes to game I’m atomic
At dropping it straight, point blank and untwisted
No imagination needed, cause I lived it
This ain’t no fucking joke, this shit is real to me
I’m Ice-T, O. G
[Hook}
Two weeks ago I was out at the disco
Two brothers stepped up to me and said, «Hey yo, Ice
We don’t think you’re down. What set ya claiming?»
E drew the Glock, yo my set’s aiming!
Dumb motherfucker, try to roll on me, please!
I’m protected by a thousand emcees
And hoodlums and hustlers and bangers with jheri curls
We won’t even count the girls
Cause they got my back and I got theirs too
Fight for the streets when I’m on Oprah or Donahue
They try to sweat a nigga but they just didn’t figure
That my wit’s as quick as a hair trigger
«He's not your everyday-type prankster.»
I’m Ice-T, the original gangster
So step to me if you think that you’re ready to
Got on your bullet proof? Well mine’s going right thru
This ain’t no game to me, it’s hollow fame to me
Without respect from streets, so I don’t claim be
The hardest motherfucker on earth
Catch me slipping, I can’t even get worked
But I don’t slip that often, there’s a coffin
Waiting for the brother who comes off soft when
The real fucking shit goes down, take a look around
All them pussies can be found
They talk a mean fight but fight like hoes
I’m from South Central, fool, where everything goes
Snatch you out your car so fast you’ll get whiplash
Numbers on your rooftop for when the copters pass
Gangbangers don’t carry no switchblades
Every kid’s got a Tec 9 or a hand grenade
Thirty-seven killed last week in a crack war
Hostages tied up and shot in the liquor store
Nobody gives a fuck
«The children have to go to school!» Well, moms, good luck!
Cause the shit’s fucked up bad I use my pad and pen
And my lyrics break out mad
I try to write about fun and the good times
But the pen yanks away and explodes and destroys the rhyme
Maybe it’s just cause of where I’m from
L.A. (*bang!*) that was a shotgun!
