Yo Ice, my nigga! What's up, Loke? Just had to tell niggas what time it was, Latin man, you know? I hear you, homie. Look at those fucking niggas. We don't play that shit. Original Gangsta! Ten years ago, I used to listen to rappers flow, talking about the way they rock the mic at the disco. I liked how that shit was going down. Dreamt about ripping the mic with my own sound. So I tried to write rhymes something like them. My boy said, that ain't you Ice, that shit sounds like him. So I sat back, thought up a new track. Didn't fantasize, kicked to pure facts. Motherfuckers got scared cause they was unprepared. Who would tell it how it really was, who dared? A motherfucker from the West Coast L.A. South Central, fool, where the Crips and the blood play. When I wrote about parties, it didn't fit. That wasn't real shit. OG, Original Gangsta! OG, Original Gangsta! OG, Original Gangsta! OG, Original Gangsta! OG, Original Gangsta! OG, Original Gangsta! OG, Original Gangsta! OG, Original Gangsta! When I wrote about parties, someone always died. When I tried to write happy, yo, I knew I lied. Cause I live a life of crime, why play it blind? A simple looking anyone with two cents would know I'm a hardcore player from the streets. Rapping about hardcore topics over hardcore drum beats. A little different than the average though. Jet you through the fast lane, drop you on death row. Cause anybody who's been there knows that life ain't so lovely on the blood so fast track. That invincible shit don't work. Throw you in a joint, you'll be coming out feet first. So I blast the mic with my style. Sometimes I'm ill and other times buck wild. But the science is always there. I'll be a true sucker if I act like I didn't care. I rap for brothers just like myself. Days by the game in a quest for extreme wealth. But I kick it to your heart and reel. One wrong move and your cap's peeled. I ain't no superhero, I ain't no Marvel comic. But when it comes to game, I'm atomic. And dropping in straight point blank and untwisted. No imagination needed cause I lived it. This ain't no fucking joke, this shit is real to me. I'm Ice-T. O.G. O.G. Original Gangsta. O.G. Original Gangsta. O.G. Original Gangsta. O.G. Original Gangsta. Two weeks ago I was out at the disco. Two brothers stepped up to me and said, Hey yo, Ice, we don't think you're down. What set you claiming? He drew the Glock. Yo, my set's same and dumb. Motherfucker try to roll on me? Please, I'm protected by a thousand MCs. And hoodlums and hustlers and bangers with jerry curls. We won't even count the girls. Cause they got my back and I got theirs too. Fight for the streets when I'm an Oprah or Donahue. They try to sweat a nigga, but they just didn't figure. Then my whip sets quick as a hair trigger. He's not your everyday type prankster. I'm Ice-T, the Original Gangsta. O.G. Original Gangsta. O.G. Original Gangsta. O.G. Original Gangsta. O.G. Original Gangsta. O.G. Original Gangsta. O.G. Original Gangsta. O.G. Original Gangsta. O.G. Original Gangsta. So, step to me if you think that you're ready to. Got on your bulletproof? Well, mine's going right through. This ain't no game to me. It's hall of fame to me. Without respect from the streets. So I don't claim to be the hardest motherfucker on earth. Catch me slipping? I can even get work. But I don't slip that often. There's a coffin waiting for the brother who comes up soft. When the real fucking shit goes down. Take a look around. All the pussies can't be found. They talk a mean fight but fight like hoes. I'm from South Central, fool. Where everything goes. Snatch you out your car so fast you'll get whiplash. Numbers on your rooftop. But when the copters pass. Gangbangers don't carry no switchblades. Every kid's got a Tek-9 or a hand grenade. 37 killed last week in a crack war. Hostages tied up and shot in a liquor store. Nobody gives a fuck. The children have to go to school. Well, mom's good luck. Cause this shit's fucked up bad. I use my pad and pen. And my lyrics break out mad. I try to write about fun and the good times. But the pen yanks away and explodes and destroys the rhyme. Maybe it's just cause of where I'm from. L.A. That was a shotgun. OG. Original gangster. OG. Original gangster. OG. Original gangster. OG. Original gangster. OG. Original gangster. OG. Original gangster. OG. Original gangster. OG. Original gangster. OG. Original gangster. OG. Original gangster. OG. Original gangster. OG.