Crooked I - Talkin' to Myself [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

[Intro: Crooked I]
{shout-outs}

[Verse 1: Crooked I]
Let me take you to the…hood, nigga
Where we all under stress
Thugs die a bloody death
That’s nothing on the West
Got a package from my enemies, inside it was a vest
The note attached to it said “We ain’t aimin’ at ya chest”
In the… hood, nigga
Show you what danger is about
Cameras filming every angle of my house
Gotta send gang-bangers with my spouse
Niggas aimin’ at her blouse
Trying to change her into an angel in the clouds
Pow-pow in the… hood, nigga
Fuck with me I go gorilla
Talk to ‘em Kobe Killer
(I guess I keep talkin’ to Myself)
The whole circle gotta eat, watch us set the table
‘Cause these record labels
They ain’t never stable
My connect in Diego
Hit me with 100 pounds, I don’t mess with ya-yo
Gotta respect my game though
Polygraph Crooked spittin’ in the booth
Other rappers spittin’ them writtens, I’m givin’ you the truth
I’m a… hood nigga, only here to stack millions
Even though I come from the home of the crack children
See I’m a genius, I’m crazy as Katt Williams
Busy as a beaver ‘cause I’m in the damn building
This is the portrait of a poor kid
Going from moving weight like a forklift to corporate
Fertilize our mindstate, might make you forfeit
Thinkin’ that the grass is greener, but it’s only horseshit
Hood nigga!
Late at night, that’s me in the mirror
Saying “Crooked they don’t hear ya”
(I guess I keep talkin’ to myself) Yeah
Damn, I hate to sound like a broken record
But for 52 weeks in a row I broke a record
Check it, raping the game is my code of ethics
Kids better watch their ass like the pope is naked
Fuck it, I’m going the distance, persistence
C.O.B.: We the resistance, for instance
Let’s make a toast to ourselves for the way we conquered poverty
By moving this marijuana properly
Trying to acquire private property, not Monopoly
Ain’t no get outta jail free if them coppers stoppin’ me
They got orders from the top to lick a shot
And leave a nigga’ body rottin’ if I stop pickin’ cotton
As if punchin’ a clock is an option to a drop-out nigga
Livin’ in a market that they not givin’ jobs in
Us ghetto niggas we been beggin’ for some help
I guess we talkin’ to ourselves, huh?
(I guess I keep talkin’ to myself)
And I’m too enterprising to take orders
From a caveman who expect me to slave for eight quarters
In a quarter to eight, I bang corners
Doing tricks in whips like skateboarders
I’m a motherfuckin'... hood nigga
I remember times was hella hard
Gun and a ski-mask played the role of a debit card
’86: from the mall I was forever barred
For boosting them Avirex leathers, God
I never sparred, every day was a fist fight
A Outlaw like E.D.I., livin’ the Thug Life like Big Syke
Sometimes I think I shouldn’t carry a ratchet
For burying enemies when we couldn’t bury the hatchet
Puttin’ snitches in the cemetery is tragic
But we all about loyalty, like Cookie Johnson staying married to Magic!
I wear this pinkie ring for a reason
It ain’t to market an image or hit certain targets with gimmicks
C.O.B. across my arm, it’s authentic
Realest army invented
Call me a general, and all my lieutenants salute
#OKBYE