"Santa Rita Weekend" as written by and Robert Green Earl Stevens....
Stepping up out of my cell
With sandals and county blues, handcuffs and shackles
Finna ride up on that Grey Goose
Caught another case
'Cause I was strapped with my nine
And see these drawers that I'm wearing?
Muthafuckas ain't mine, nigga
Excuse me, homie, can I hit that mista?
Niggas rollin' up indo outta toilet tissue
Ain't this a bitch, some niggas are scared to hit it
Fool I'm with it
So phone check, nigga get the fuck off the line
Before I stick your ass in here and have to do some more time, player
Want to give me the strap 'cause I was strapped with a Glock
I guess I got to sit my black ass right there and get shot see (Fool)
But fool it ain't no going out
See I keep storing clout
And show these niggas what I'm all about
See niggas screaming from cell to cell
Snitches don't tell a party in hell a Santa Rita county jail

Everytime I turn around everytime I look
I'm considered to be a murderer, a crook
Ali shook the world, I'm gonna shake my homies hand
Three in the morning dressed in blue once again
My size ten rest upon the concrete floor
Heads bob real slow to a freestyle flow
I dont know this masterplan can't understand
Why there's more black folks in jail than Japenese in Japan
But uhh, my eyes pink
Sitting upon that bunk
Thinking about them tickets
Choking up on that funk chunk
I draw a Snickers from my commisary bank
Sunday, Monday came fool I'm out this holding tank
But it makes me think the systems treating us like a merry go round
One day you're chilling at home
The next you headed downtown
Peace to my hounds in the county, in the pen
Once again its a Santa Rita weekend

Just sitting up on the top bunk
Watching the cell block row

Just sitting up on the top bunk
Watching the cell block row

Seven zero seven case motherfucking number two eleven
Stressing manifestin' tore up from the floor
Penelope's gots me on the floor
Accused of robbing a store
Who you know nigga naybody?
Besides which I refuse to answer any questions
Without the advisory of my lawyer, Mr. Baker
Pervin' off this boiler maker
Let me go po po I'm innocent
Mistaken, right, suppose all blacks look alike
Thank you kindly sir
You need to practice your professional better
Never, run up on me again
Bust a pattern be off into the wind
Back up off me bitch
Just the other day my cronies shot me a kite
E-40 baby boy
You becoming hella tight
Clayback, Vacaville up there by Reno, Rita, Quentin, Folsom, Chino

Just sitting up on the top bunk
Watching the cell block row

Its like yayo, mayo, weights and scales
It don't mean shit when you're sitting in the county jail
Is it my turn to tell the tale
Of how I got popped and how my lawyer finna get me out, on the spot
Slide the cell block, my homies give me love
Some here for having gats
Some here for selling drugs
Sometimes you do your shit
And ain't no second tries
Look around there's hella motherfuckas that I recognize
Oh, what's up man, I'm back again
But its a temporary situation
Taking weekend vacation
Government incaceration
I call myself working on a pay hike
They calling me working on my third strike
Psycyh, I can't go forward
And motherfuckas can't ignore it
'Cause all my peoples on parole
In the pen or gotta warrant
So it's some shit I done leaped in
Damn another Santa Rita weekend

Just sitting up on the top bunk
Watching the cell block row

Just sitting up on the top bunk
Watching the cell block row


Lyrics submitted by SongMeanings

"Santa Rita Weekend" as written by Eric Davis Earl Stevens

Lyrics © FROZEN SOAP SONGS, BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC

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Santa Rita Weekend song meanings
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