3 Strikes You In Lyrics - War & Peace, Vol. I: The War Disc - Ice Cube

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 

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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 

Photos 

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)