Snitch

Snitch.
Sorry nigga, I'm tryna come home.


Let's define snitch. Well, first let's begin with what a snitch isn't. A snitch isn't someone who's 1) a civilian (a regular citizen) and 2) isn't involved in street activity whatsoever. Calling the police because you have Amber Alert information isn't snitching; it's vital information. Nor is a grandmother calling the man because niggas stay shooting up the block where her grandchildren play. Her babies deserve to play outside in the fresh air. That's concerned citizens angry about criminal activity outside their windows and in their buildings. If you hustle, get your money in the cut or stairwells, not where the babies play. But fake fuck ass niggas have distorted the game to the point where all types ignorance is allowed and even commended. Fuck you, you ignorant fuck ass niggas. I'm not afraid to speak up on it. I got street money for years. I stuck to the code. You niggas deserve to be hanged.


Now let's get to what a snitch really is.


I'm outchea every day grinding for mine. There's no rough hustling. I don't have the guns out playing war games in broad daylight. I don't bust stops or have the cheese line leading to my trap. I move in B staircases. I stay in motion, catching hand to hands on foot. I move in anonymity in broad daylight. And I feed the hood. You on the other hand...you're a lazy fuck. You choose to wait on a government check, your baby mama or even your mama for ends. You don't know what it's like to chase paper. You have no ambition. But you see me fall through the spot from time to time, shining like a fresh quarter out the US Mint. I make you sick to your stomach. I have everything you lack, including respect, but most important motivation. You don't have enough nut sack to go out and get yours. You pussy ass nigga. So what do you do? You drop a random call and point me out to the man. You snitch ass nigga.


Scenario 2:


You and me been down since back when. We came up moving candy together in seventh grade. We graduated to reefa in high school. Fast forward the clock and we're knee deep in yay (cocaine). We made it to a brick between us, 18 raw apiece on the digital scale. We split it down the middle, bottle/bag it up and hit our respective strip/trap. I move mine. I'm waiting on your text or call so we can Voltron with the paper and see Papí pronto. But little do I know that you got hit in midst your flip. The police have you under pressure down at the precinct right TF now. And not some squares in $200 suits. We're talking DEA, jack. They start throwing those football numbers at you. You start thinking about other niggas all up in that sweet pussy your baby mama swears she only gives to you. That pricey lean habit you have gon be a bitch to kick cold turkey. Those fuck boys all in your ear talmbout just give us something. They promise to look out for you. Sorry Nigga, I'm Tryna Come Home. That's a MF snitch where I'm from. Don't get it confused.


SPECIAL PRE ORDER: Our black hoodies with the UnB Pharaoh in athletic gold is in full effect mode. Be the first in the hood with yours. I already have the Wu Tang foams to match with mine. You figure your uniform out accordingly. Until next time y'all, it's your boy @tymonday. I'll see you when I see you. 115.


#crewlove
#beunbearable


Twitter: @crewunB
IG: theunbearablescrew