Verse One: I caught another case so the Loc needs bail but your people act funny when you're sittin in a cell I didn't get mail so jail was like hell out of anger I shank 'em in the neck in the stairwell I remember potacaine was used to rock up It was a trip on how I got locked up 10 saltine crackers runnin at me with yellow coats yellin "Don't move or catch a hot one to the throat" you learn real fast to put your hands up quick, black Yo, just put an 'out of order' sign on your bozack I didn't twitch, scratch or itch they found a nine in my inside pocket ain't that a bitch A short and quick trip to the County straight drama the first call I made was collect to my mama I didn't go see her before I went to jail but now I wanted her to come visit send money orders and post bail Till I remembered that I'm grown So now I gotta handle it myself, fool the Loc is on his own Chorus: The Loc is on His Own Moms was trippin' she got a block on the phone I can't call home, the Loc is on his own Moms was trippin' she got a block on the phone I can't call home, the Loc is on his own Moms was trippin' she got a block on the phone Verse Two: Yea Moms I love you too I understand that your tired of the bullshit I put you throw I pleaded not guilty, G with no intentions of going to trial, I got the plea Now the cops got another young nigga off the streets He's coming back to fish for some more meat Puttin marked money on a hook to real us in or sit in this little ass bucket called the Pen and they'll give you a day when you'll be free huh, but it ain't no garantee because you might get the shovel be the next one to find out is it a god in the devil but it you can hold your own and mind your own you live long, take no shit and stay strong some fake religon and play with churches they put pretty boys with hard niggaz on purpose I ain't heard from non of my peoples, homes but that's ai-ight though the Bullet Loc is on his own Chorus Polo T-shirt, now I'm creasing up my 501's hoping they gonna give me some sun No So-Glow Pimp Daddy Afro the Loc ain't about to shave I'm comin like a mob in 9-4 comb in my left back pocket, it's time try to get Parole in this long ass line my big homie walked out with his head down low I said yo, big boo, what the fuck they shoot you down for my brotha wants to kill the pig gave him a year because his arms are too big it's fucked up in jail if you're holdin a bowl with some change, your goin back in your cell they let me go, I grabbed my heaters now I'm down with the niggaz in the shell-toe Adidas and we going to make this money, all of it not a little bit I'm smokin on the Indo until I get illiterate leave me alone, trick, I'm in a full zone my money's on the microphone The Loc is on his own Chorus