Game Ain't Based On Sympathy Lyrics - Rick Ross

Reminiscing on that, uh... 

I remember they used to give us that free cheese... 

A big block of that shit 

Yeah, man I'm glad y'all ain't gotta get that cheese 

Man, I thank God my kids ain't gotta see that cheese 

Yo, you know what I'm saying? 

You gotta feed it to them raw. Feel me? 

Renovating the ghettoes, moving me elsewhere 

Daddy didn't see pension they took his healthcare 

Affordable housing and they fed us welfare 

Showed us Tony Montana, teachers couldn't care less 

A young prince in Miami, son of a pharaoh 

This is deeper than raps, I can't run from the echoes 

And I hear the screams 

Under my mattress box springs, I still see the C.R.E.A.M 

Mac 11 next to Grammy invitations 

I'm never quiet, tell my niggas all my aspirations 

No more beefing with rappers 

It's just murder or nothing 

New positions to master, I perfected the others 

Niggas shoot for the Magic, never heard of Matumbo 

These are lucrative assets, golden words that will mumble you 

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This the biggest... 

Corner store was the stage, I needed management 

In a mansion that I could squeeze another phantom in 

Negative people just seem to fail first 

I said I'm a genius, put in the legwork 

You step to my niggas, suggest you stay alert 

No, I've never been lenient, nor a man of mercy 

I stick my dick in her tell her my net worth 

Then we stare at each other and see who catch first 

A pretty chick, she resembles Stacy Dash 

If it was her, she had to kiss my feet and lick my ass 

Pussy nigga want war, til' it's "bonjour" 

Those hitters sitting a bomb outside your mom door 

Got your people alarmed cause we the armed force 

Easy as leaking a song before I go on tour 

Photos 

Uh 

Gang violence ongoing, let's fight our own wars 

Chicago been out of hand, the city lost its soul 

Funeral every weekend or either you cremated 

Homie's son, he been murdered, he didn't seem faded 

Holding guns on the gram, out of my league baby 

Real killers and hitters would rather live nameless 

I got a homie I know with a twenty body count 

Maybe once or twice a month he leave the house 

Older brother, type to get a curly perm 

Pappy Mason type respect for holding thirty birds 

Never was a gangster, I just wanted in 

No longer could I deny that I wanted a Benz 

Booby gave me blessings and a root for me to win 

I showed him my ambition in two different fields 

Also, said I was a rapper, Booby here it is 

Real talk my nigga, here it is