Gangsta

Gangsta, gangsta, gangsta

Gangsta!
Don't shoot me, don't call yourself the king of the streets
Gangsta!
Living a lie, blah, blah, blah

Gangsta!
Don't shoot me, don't call yourself the king of the streets
Gangsta!
Living a lie, blah, blah, blah

I write with the pen of the dead poet
Speak to the masses to avoid stepping in crap
And I'm stubborn, like a mule, away from the spotlight
But I watch, silent mouths of all my detractors

All those flowers disguised as thugs
But they live with mom because she washes their undies
I don't need to act tough
Or brag that my whole past has been rough

I doubt dozens of women in their beds
I doubt their bullets and their mean faces
My gray hairs are worth more than twenty giant mouths
You act like roosters but I have the crests

They boast, they want to be seen
Dream of being someone and get frustrated when they're not
On top of a brick and they get dizzy
Real gangsters don't rap

Gangsta!
Don't shoot me, don't call yourself the king of the streets
Gangsta!
Living a lie, blah, blah, blah

Gangsta!
Don't shoot me, don't call yourself the king of the streets
Gangsta!
Living a lie, blah, blah, blah

I stepped on their rotting bodies but washed my feet
From four eyeballs I kept three
And I have ten in the diploma to erase charlatans
Too many barks from such small dogs

I throw bread to all the hungry
I don't need to shoot them because they're already dead
Want violent stories? Look outside
Open your wallet, arrive in the beast at the border

Try to feed four with seventy pesos
Live the drug war and dodge heavy calibers
Shout freedom when the police repress
Raise a machete for the peasant blood

A gangster is one who dies for his people
A true gangster doesn't need a sign
They talk and babble, they run but they limp
Real gangsters don't rap

Gangsta!
Don't shoot me, don't call yourself the king of the streets
Gangsta!
Living a lie, blah, blah, blah

Gangsta!
Don't shoot me, don't call yourself the king of the streets
Gangsta!
Living a lie, blah, blah, blah