Produced by Just Blaze Directed by Nzingha Stewart Philadelphia Freeway ℗ 2002 UMG Recordings, Inc. Lyrics: [Intro: Freeway] Man if I get rocked, this shit for my kids nigga It's that real shit (Even though what we do is wrong) [Verse 1: Freeway & Jay-Z] We still hustle 'til the sun come up Crack a 40 when the sun go down It's a cold winter, y'all niggas better bundle up And I bet it be a hotter summer, grab a onion just to rock it down You hot now, listen up Don't you know cops' sole purpose is to lock us down? And throw away the key But without this drug shit, your kids ain't got no way to eat, huh? We still try to keep mom, smilin' Cause when her teeth stop showin' And her stomach start growlin' then the heat start flowin' If you from the hood, I know you feel me (Keep goin') If a sneak start leaning and the heat stop workin' Then my heat start working, I'ma rob me a person Catch a nigga sleeping while he out in the open And I'ma get him (Keep flowin') We gotta raise our kids while we livin' Make a million off a record, bail my niggas outta prison Fuck a Bentley or a Lexus, just my boys in the squadder Nigga talk reckless then I hit 'em with the Smith 'n But I'm never snitching, I'm a rider If my kids hungry, snatch the dishes out ya kitchen I'll be wilding 'til they pick me out a line-up Even though what we do is wrong We keep the nines tucked, chopped dimes up, rap about it Wild out, fuck niggas up, laugh about it I'm not tryna visit the morgue But Freeway move out 'til I sit with the Lord 'Til I, get my shit together, clean up my sins Freeway got it in like 10 in the morning And I can get it to ya like 10 while you yawning mang Even though what we do is wrong Still deliver the order mang And I ain't talking 'bout chicken and gravy mang I'm talking bout bricks of yayo, halves and quarters Fou and a halves of hash, you do the math Swing past us, scoop up your daughter She wanna roll with a thug that rap, you do the math He gon' blast 'til my stacks in order mang! [Verse 2: Jay-Z] Mang, let me get 'em Free Hov never slacking mang, zipping in the black Range Faster than the red ghost, getting ghost with Pac-Man One-time know I got a knack to get that change Leader of the black gang, R-O-C mang Bang like T-Mac, ski mask, air it out Gotta kill witnesses 'cause Free's beard's sticking out Y'all don't want to witness shit, we squeeze hammers mang Bullets breeze by you, like Louisiana mang But I gotta feed Tianna mang So I move keys, you can call me the Piano Man Rain, sleet, hail, snow man Slang dope, E, hydro man [Verse 3: Beanie Sigel] You, know, B. Sige' in the third lane Gramps still praying, working on my nerves man Like, "Son you gotta get your soul clean Before they blow them horns like Coltrane" But still I cry tears of a hustler Wipe tears from my mother, pour out beers for our brothers That's above us, make beds for the babies Tuck kids under covers, buy cribs for their mothers Shit, I'll probably be wilding with their fathers Tell Ms. Robert, tell Anajmah that I'm riding for her father That's like my brother, like same mother, different father Any problems dawg, know I got 'em And still we grind from the bottom Just to make it to the bottom, sold crack in the alleyways Still gave back Marcy on Dollar Day Real gangstas make hood holidays They ain't thank us but we still paid homage mang Soul Food Sunday looking like Big Momma's mang Tell the gang I never break my promise mang Mang, uhh! [Outro] Even though what we do is wrong Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong Even though what we do is wrong Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong Producer: Just Blaze Studio Personnel, Recording Engineer, Mixer: Gimel "Young Guru" Keaton Composer Lyricist: Leslie Pridgen Composer Lyricist: Justin Smith Composer Lyricist: Shawn Carter Composer Lyricist: Dwight Grant Composer Lyricist: S. Scarborough