One mo' strike and I'm through nigga

Bottom of the ninth swingin for my life

I'm up at the plate goin for the gate

They got my moms seated in section eight

Been on deck since my last felony

I'm that 0 for 2 mothafucka

With the Louisville Slugger

Shay Whitie that left hand punk

is on the mound and he comin wit dat off speed junk

Its the Westside Hustlaz vs these LA Pigs

You can say the damned vs the nigs

My little homies in the dugout

They lookin' sad, cuz fourteen niggas done struck-out

My first offense was possession of weed

Now I'm in the major leagues and

that mothafucka Bill Clinton-is a son of a bitch

had the nerve to throw out the first pitch

I'm just tryin' to get rich like Trump

The Home Run king is now in a slump, pass me a hunk

How the fuck can I stay out the pen

When its one-two-three strikes you in



Chorus:



One-two three strikes you in

Now how the fuck a nigga supposed

to stay out the pen, I'm on a blend

of Gin and Hen, everyday of my life

With two strikes it ain't right





He's in the wind-up

Here come the pitch

I swing, aw shit (foul tip)

They felt the chill cuz if I get on first

You know the deal - a niggas gots to steal

Like to steal home and I betcha

That I can run over, the LA Pig catcher

Just because I'm black, wit a bat

They wanna send a nigga back to the warning track

fulla count they say I won't amount to shit

But fool I can hit like Kenny Grit

With a split in my mouth on tha cellular phone

(It's going, going, gone!)

And watch a pitcher get served

You from tha LA Pigs

I know you coming with a curve

Ay batter, batter is the chitter-chatter

I'm the designated hitter, a nigga

much badder, than Babe Ruth

Will I tell the truth and nothing but the truth

Hell yea, I'd rather be shootin' hoops

Cuz a niggas guaranteed to win

Against a bullshit loss and three strikes you in



Take me out to the ballgame

Take me out to the crowd (wha what, wha what)

Another nigga on trial

Keep ya peanuts Jeezuh

And fuck you Cracker Jack

I hope I never come back



I gots to root for my homeboys

If they dont win its a shame

Cuz its one-two-three strikes you in

twenty-five years of pain you know my name



They wanna nigga to run and get hung

high strung, so this pig can win the Cy-Young

I'ma hit this mothafucka a mile

In the batters box, high as Steve Hal

You can't salary cap my gat

No strike, cuz gangsta-rap is on the map

I'm like Satchel Paige wit a gauge

Or Jackie Robinson, when I'm robbin' one

of you Cracker Jacks fool I'm a mothafuckin vet

And fuck yo seventh-inning stretch, so

Take me out to the ballgame,

and see my neighborhood name

In your Ghetto Hall of Fame



Chorus x 3



Yea (It ain't right)

Playin' people like a game (It aint right)

Human beings, puttin' em in a jar (It aint right)

for double life, triple life (It aint right)



Take me out to the ballgame

Take me out to the crowd (wha what, wha what)

Another nigga on trial

Keep ya peanuts Jeezuh

And fuck you Cracker Jack

I hope I never come back



I gots to root for my homeboys

If they dont win its a shame

Cuz its one-two-three strikes you in

twenty-five years of pain you know my name



You know my name (wha what, wha what) x 4



If I die tonight, you know who did it (you know)

If I ride tonight, you know who did it (you know)

If they sheck me up, you know who did it (don't guess)

If they check my nuts, you know who did it (get 'em)

If they break my bank, you know who did it (yea)

If they pull my rank, you know who did it (get 'em)

If they sock me up, you know who did it (yea)

If they lock me up, you know who did it (get 'em)

If they smear my name, you know who did it

If they kill my game, you know who did it

Remember me (you know who did it)

Wha what, wha what (you know who did it