Текст Z–Ro – Bring My Mail
Текст:
Talking:
That’s right nigga, King of the Ghetto in this. Check it out.
I’d like to thank my fans, for all the love mail and the hate mail,
Every time I was in jail, an the judge didn’t let me make bail.
Cause he knows I’m goin’ from first to last place.
So I’m makin out another commissary list,
Stamped envelopes, soups, oatmeal and tuna fish.
Soda, candy, cool offs, coffee is as close to codeine as I can get it,
Hopin this weekend I get another visit.
But I ain’t stressin I’m just countin down weeks,
Poppin muscle relaxers so I’m always sleep.
The warden want the CO’s to catch me slippin,
But they ain’t trippin,
So they bringin me burgers and barbecue chicken.
Some of them love me, some of them they can’t stand me,
Probably cause I’m rich and in the world I ride candy.
They think they put me through hell,
But I can’t tell,
It don’t matter what they do as long as they bring my mail.
Bring my maaaaaiiiillll, bring my mail. My mail. (My mail, my mail, my mail)
You can bring my maaaaaiiiillll, bring my mail. My mail. (My mail, my mail, my mail.)
Ain’t nothin on the TV but Jerry Springer,
And the sexy guard in the picket, but the windows are tinted so you can barely see her.
I really hope they call rec in a sec,
Otherwise work out a lil bit or try to get a channel check.
Certain officers try to give me a hard time,
And the GI’s watching tryin to catch me throwin up gang signs.
For no reason at all, they constantly harrass me,
Tryin to get me to lose my temper, so they can gas me.
Cause I got so much pride they can’t take none of it from me,
They just mad cause they ain’t makin enough money.
And still gotta work on holidays, all day and night,
Takin it out on me, cause I’m in all white,
But it’s all right I just lay back,
When I get out I’d love to see they faces when I peel out in my Maybach.
Meanwhile I can’t even tell I’m in jail,
Cause I’m doin swell,
Y’all can kiss my ass on the way to bring my mail.
Bring my maaaaaiiiillll, bring my mail. My mail. (My mail, my mail, my mail)
You can bring my maaaaaiiiillll, bring my mail. My mail. (My mail, my mail, my mail.)
I’m usually out eatin for the holidays, but instead,
I be sharin meat packs and noodles with my cellies and we fed.
Cause we’re two gun runnin homies, gettin hit up,
Drinkin hooch till we fall off and it’s hard to get up.
But there’s always one that wanna ruin it,
You know the one that’s always pointin fingers, he the one that be doin it.
Runnin off at the mouth but ain’t man enough to repeat it to the ranks,
So they takin both the TV’s out the tank.
No necessities either, but we can wash our own clothes,
But somebody gon’ get slit if we don’t get to watch the Super Bowl.
I don’t even look at television in the world,
So I’m good I’ll write a rap or write a couple of girls.
Or read me a book to put some fat on my brain,
Before I come back to prison they’ll have to murder me mayn.
My in and out the jailhouse gotta stop,
But in the meantime I gotta see how many new pictures I got.
Bring my mail.
Bring my maaaaaiiiillll, bring my mail. My mail. (My mail, my mail, my mail)
You can bring my maaaaaiiiillll, bring my mail. My mail. (My mail, my mail, my mail.)
