Wussup wit' the love, wussup wit' the love?

Wussup wit' the love, wussup wit' the love?



Now, men want racism, black folks in prison, me bar

What's goin' on with the luh-uh-ove?

Boo-ya-kaw is the sound, brothers goin' down in the worst way

I got my son a gun for his birthday.

Now we've had enough, everybody wants to be tough,

But I give the props to brothers on my level instead of trying to be above,

'Cause I see nothin' feminine about givin' your brother some love.

Look deeply in each other's eyes: you know we are the ones

Racism is a cloud that blocks us from the sun.

One brother speaks in African, one sings Jamaican songs,

Both of them are black men, but they still can't get along.



Wussup wit' the love, wussup wit' the love?

Wussup wit' the love, wussup wit' the love?

Wussup wit' the love, wussup wit' the love?

Wussup wit' the love, wussup wit' the love?



[Yo, I know this brother named Tony, he beat up his own mom, man.

[Nah, man]. Straight up. Him and his two brothers, they all live in the

same house with his mom, right. [Right]. They all in their twenties,

she the only one working. Anyway, one night she needed to get some

sleep, she told him to turn his music down, and he just straight flipped

on her: slapped her all up against the wall, cursed her out...]



Mommy and Daddy they got married, they make love every night

But Momma's gettin' tired, and Poppa hits the pipe at night.

I see 'em kissin' wishin' I got the props that Pops, I mean the rocks, got

I hope she hugs me, 'cause she never dug me.

I figure still I hustle, tussle with the fool at school,

The one that Momma sold my sneakers, thought she says he's freakinc1