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Wheelsmith Network:
Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/user-983484255-125882902
Instagram: @wheelsmith_


Lyrics:
This story's about a man called Barbaroe Joe
Indicted at the mere age of 22 years old
For assault and robbery on Sycamore road
Falsely accused by those with whom he rolled

He walked a free man about 20 years later
Scruff beard, faded clothes but he believed in the Saviour
Now he wants to be clean and earn honest paper
Connect with his daughter and show her he ain't a failure

Once again walking down the familiar streets of Brooklyn 
Among the filth, which he remembered once took him
The halfway house felt much too much like a bullpen
All sinners alike, all lost and broken

Lied on a bed which sunk him right to the floor
He couldn't sleep that night, the bed was way too soft
Institutionalized but they call it reformed 
He needed a breath of free air, so he walked right out the door

The city was new and ever so bustling 
But he still saw the homeboys on the corner hustling
The same old gates, still vandlised and still rusting
He still saw his people all hungry and struggling 

Somethings were new like thephones with no buttons
And everyone dressed the same and they blended into nothing 
People still did not care about the repercussions 
And he knew deep inside all the gangsta were fronting 

Walked into a liquor store and got an ice cold forty 
He saw the homeboys staring and they realized who was he

Calling him names, but old Joe wasn't bothered
They threatened him with death, but deep inside he was all slaughtered 

He sat on the steps and started reminiscing 
Thinking about his old friends who are now dead or missing
Thinking about mistakes, systems and his false admission
And how he called his daughter up and she straight dismissed him
The court gave him parole but his life remains as cold and isolated as a winter prison 
And now without a mission
Like boat with holes he's sinking 
He wanted to Marty Mcfly back in time right back to the beginning 

And in many ways life can be unforgiving
It was as if happiness was now a feeling that's forbidden 
With a sip of the beer, he sat, depression ridden 
God was the only one, he thought, still rode with him

As he drank away, he heard an engine roar
He saw headlights turning around the liquor store 
With 808s booming like the drums of war
He saw the homeboys riding in, smoking some weed they scored 

Cutting out the lights and followed by the music 
They rolled on over in the stealthy old Buick

They stopped beside Joe, they spat they dissed
"You're a mark brother, you can't fuck with this!"

Joe wasnt shook, he just shook his head
Cause he knew that boys would eventually end up dead
Riding and fronting as if they were immortal
A perfect carbon copy of what his friends did

"Listen Lil Homie, you better get outta this game, at the very end, we all end up the US same, silently picking scraps of the OGs plates, thinking you'll get bitches, cars and fame"

And then shots rang out, an echoed round the block
And his shirt dark red and his heart about to stop
The homeboys hit the pedal, the streets got hot
He collapsed to the ground, profusely bleeding and shocked 

And then his eyes closed with a final heave
2.30 in the morning, Barbaroe Joe deceased
Death by gunshot, fired by the diseased 
The common infection which affects the streets

The Story Of Barbaroe Joe (Prod. By Wheelsmith

Been making music and rapping for 7 years. Got tired of waiting for things to fall into place and decided to set it myself

OPUS RENEGADE