Lyrical Breakdown of 3 Srikes You In - A Journey through Words and Rhymes
Welcome to the detailed analysis of "3 Srikes You In" on Lazyjot. Here, we unravel the lyrical complexity and artistic brilliance that define this iconic song.
- Lyric Overview: Witness how Ice Cube weaves words into powerful emotions and vivid imagery. From intricate rhyme schemes to compelling storytelling, every line in "3 Srikes You In" is a testament to masterful songwriting.
- Rhyme and Rhythm Analysis: Our Lazyjot editor highlights the ingenious use of multi-syllabic rhymes and the rhythm pattern that Ice Cube employs. Understand the construction of each verse and how it contributes to the song's overall impact.
- Syllable Pattern Insights: Dive deeper into the structural elements of the lyrics. See how the syllable count varies across the song, adding a unique rhythm and flow to Ice Cube's narrative.
This lyrical analysis of "3 Srikes You In" not only celebrates Ice Cube's artistic prowess but also serves as an educational tool for aspiring songwriters. If this analysis inspires you and you'd like to see your own songs analyzed in this way, join the Lazyjot community. Register at Lazyjot and start exploring the full potential of your lyrical creativity. Turn your thoughts into rhymes and your rhymes into songs with Lazyjot!
One mo' strike and I'm through, nigga
It's the 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' with that off-speed junk
It's the Westside Hustlaz vs. these L.A. pigs
You could say the damned vs. the nigs
My little homies in the dugout
They lookin' sad, 'cause 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 it's one-two-three strikes, you in?
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, every day 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, 'cause if I get on first
You know the deal, a nigga's gots to steal
Like to steal home, and I betcha
That I can run over the L.A. pig catcher
Just because I'm black with a bat
They wanna send a nigga back to the warning track
Full count, they say I won't amount to shit
But fool, I can hit like Kenny Grit
With a split in my mouth on the cellular phone
(It's going, going, gone!)
And watch a pitcher get served
You from the L.A. pigs, I know you comin' with a curve
"Ey batter, batter" is the chitter-chatter
I'm the designated hitter, a nigga
Much badder than Babe Ruth
Will I tell the truth and nothin' but the truth?
Hell yeah, I'd rather be shootin' hoops
'Cause a nigga's guaranteed to win
Against a bullshit loss, and three strikes, you in
Take me out to the ballgame
Take me out to the crowd (wha-what, wha-what)
Another nigga on trial
Keep your peanuts, Jeezuh
And fuck you, Cracker Jack
I hope I never come back
I gots to root for my homeboys
If they don't win, it's a shame
'Cause it's one-two-three strikes, you in
Twenty-five years of pain, you know my name
They want a 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 batter's box, high as Steve Hal
You can't salary cap my gat
No strike, 'cause gangsta rap is on the map
I'm like Satchel Paige with a gauge
Or Jackie Robinson, when I'm robbin' one
Of you Cracker Jacks, fool, I'm a mothafuckin' vet
And fuck your seventh-inning stretch, so
Take me out to the ballgame
And see my neighborhood name
In your Ghetto Hall of Fame
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, every day of my life
With two strikes, it ain't right
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, every day of my life
With two strikes, it ain't right
Yeah (it ain't right)
Playin' people like a game (it ain't right)
Human beings, puttin' 'em in a jar (it ain't right)
For double life, triple life (it ain't right)
Take me out to the ballgame
Take me out to the crowd (wha-what, wha-what)
Another nigga on trial
Keep your peanuts, Jeezuh
And fuck you, Cracker Jack
I hope I never come back
I gots to root for my homeboys
If they don't win, it's a shame
'Cause it's one-two-three strikes, you in
Twenty-five years of pain, you know my name
(Wha-what, wha-what)
You know my name (Wha-what, wha-what)
You know my name (Wha-what, wha-what)
You know my name (Wha-what, wha-what)
You know my name
If I die tonight, you know who did it (you know)
If I ride tonight, you know who did it (you know)
If they check 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 (yeah)
If they pull my rank, you know who did it (get 'em)
If they sock me up, you know who did it (yeah)
If they lock me up, you know who did it (get 'em)
If they smear my name, you know who did it (it was 'em)
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)