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Lyrics
[Intro]
Mama in the kitchen (quiet)
Sirens out the window, riot
Hand-me-down shoes, wide eyes
Dreams in a shoebox, tied tight
[Verse 1]
Section 8 ceiling leaking
Roaches in the cereal, eating
Uncle on the couch, not breathing
Cops at the door, mama screaming
First pack in the backpack, scared
Praying on the bus, cold stare
Say it's just weed, don't care
But I know where this road goes, yeah
Homie got hit at the corner store
Blood on the glass, they mopped the floor
Next day same spot, they short on more
So I stood in that line, became the source
[Chorus]
I grew up where the gunshots sing
Lullabies in the nighttime, ring
Had to sell what I hate to bring
Food to the table, keep the lights from dimming
I grew up where the love feel broke
Turn pain to profit, hope from smoke
If I make it out, that's all I wrote
From the ghetto to the grave, I spoke
[Verse 2]
Daddy did time, then vanished
Mama did two jobs, famished
I did that math, took chances
Turned my backpack into a canvas
Clock on my hip, too heavy
Hands on the wheel, palms sweaty
Drive-by dreams in a Chevy
Young, dumb, but the bills stay ready
Little bro watching from the gate
He see my roll, think it's fate
I see his face, I see my hate
I tell him books, but I’m late
Homie in the sky, that voicemail saved
Catch myself pressing play on the grave
He said, "Get out 'fore you dig this place"
But the rent due now, so I play this game
[Chorus]
I grew up where the gunshots sing
Lullabies in the nighttime, ring
Had to sell what I hate to bring
Food to the table, keep the lights from dimming
I grew up where the love feel broke
Turn pain to profit, hope from smoke
If I make it out, that's all I wrote
From the ghetto to the grave, I spoke
[Bridge]
What you know about counting cash, eyes wet
Stack on the table, all blood-debt
Kiss mama forehead, say "not yet"
Tryna buy her peace with a paycheck
[Chorus]
I grew up where the gunshots sing
Lullabies in the nighttime, ring
Had to sell what I hate to bring
Food to the table, keep the lights from dimming
I grew up where the love feel broke
Turn pain to profit, hope from smoke
If I make it out, that's all I wrote
From the ghetto to the grave, I spoke
Details
GeneratedMar 5, 2026
Duration2:43
LanguageEnglish
Style
rap, Dusty West Coast bounce with warm analog synth leads, swung drums, and a rubbery bass line. Male vocals sitting upfront, relaxed but raw. Hook explodes with stacked gang vocals and subtle talkbox doubles. Verses ride a laid-back pocket with occasional record-stop drops before the last bar to spotlight key lines. Sparse piano stabs and filtered strings appear in the bridge to lift the emotion, then everything slams back in for the final chorus.
Credits
Prompt bySavageBlaze941
ModelAria v5
Prompt
A westcoast rap song about growing up in the ghetto streets getting shot and selling drugs to help my family survive
