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| Ice Cube War & Peace Vol. 1: The War Disc Three Strikes You In Thanks to ccyao@worldnet.att.net for these lyrics. 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) |
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