up Don't stop that's my tune That's my thing man, you can turn it up Don't stop that's my tune I'm sittin in my class Teacher's in the bathroom Boom,
Seed and stamen and all unnamed lives that live Turn your quivering nerves in my direction Turn your quivering nerves in my direction Feel the energy projection of my
The wrong punchline'll have niggaz inside of your house Nigga I'm doing good I made it out of the hood I own Beverly Hills no more bottles or wood That's a zipper that's
's time to eat" Across the foyer, ya hear the gather of stampeding feet One pound box of sugar, and a stick of margarine A hot pot of Grits got my family
of day. I held my eyes straight in the dark To scare the beasts that cross my way There'll never be a widing road That stops my quest and ends my prayers
written by steve for a song with Different lyrics that appears on morning wood. this was jewel's Response to that song, told from the female's point
less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary dear departed shade
cool tunes Something that sounds like a long time ago The kind of music that thrills my soul You must have something in your record rack A simple little song that
It's the life of a rebel that he chose to live It's the death of a rebel that he died It's the death of a rebel that he died Now, some say Joe was guilty
through the night a figure of fright, as I hid my head C#7 f#m And the buried their nose in a cut of my cloths, now torn in shreds C#7 b
of Red Wing. It's many a guard That stands around smilin', Holdin' his club Like he was a king. Hopin' to get you Behind a wood pilin', Inside the walls
for a guitar to play but now my best friend?s at my feet. I can tell by her tiny cries. Its time for us to eat we shuffle to that old wood stove. I put
wrong punchline'll have niggaz inside of your house Nigga I'm doing good I made it out of the hood I own Beverly Hills no more bottles or wood That's a zipper that's
it House full of brothers and sisters, the pop's missin' Pillsbury box on the stove in the kitchen [Hook x0.5] [Masta Killa] Young shorties in my hood
I opened my chest to heart my lies to accept the judgement of her knife. The morning And so the lonely man with no will to stay wakes up in the morning
