Some wish that I was gone, cause they know I’ma win…
O.C., “My World,” Jewelz, 1997
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Took two drags off the blunts, and started breaking down the flag:
The blue is for the Crips, the red is for the Bloods,
The whites for the cops, and the stars come from the clubs
Or the slugs that ignite, through the night,
By the dawn early light, why is sons fighting for the stripe?
I would trade my existence to give you breath,
Guess the only guarantees in this life is death.
As I look around seein’ I’m the last one left,
And the things I can’t change I just gotta accept.
Got the new Hummer in the summer when,
I was a newcomer then,
Drugs and Mac-10s, hugs from fake friends.
Make ends: they hate you,
Be broke: girls won’t date you.
It’s all love, but love’s got a thin line
And Pun’s got a big nine,
Respect crime…but not when it reflect mine.
To all the seeds that follow me,
Protect your essence.
Born with less, but you still precious,
Just smile for me now.
I don’t mind you talkin shit, just keep it in the first person.
I’m down for you, so ride with me.
My enemies your enemies,
Cause you ain’t ever had a friend like me.
Couldn’t you see me and you stretched out in a bikini on the beach in Tahiti?
See, me, I’m very selective even though I could be greedy;
My main objective is to write our names together in graffiti.
Even when I say nothing, it’s a beautiful use of negative space.
Your reign on the top was short like leprechauns,
As I crush so-called Willies, thugs, and rapper-dons.
You’ve got to realize that the world’s a test,
You can only do your best and let Him do the rest.
You’ve got your life, and got your health,
So quit procrastinating and push it yourself.
Keep my planets in orbit,
Never forfeit or quit,
I talk with the awkward slang,
I walk with the Wu-Tang.
Look: if I shoot you, I’m brainless,
But if you shoot me, then you’re famous.
What’s a nigga to do?
Do some good to the ghetto, Mr. Kris Kringle.
Come and stay awhile, kick it with God’s Angels.
Take and acknowledge my wisdom and understand
That Santa Claus is a black man.
Too many songs, weak rhymes that’s mad long.
Make it brief son: half short, twice strong!
Cause on the mic, I got more presence than attendance in a class of schizophrenics
What good is a beautiful dame with a Rolls-Royce frame, and a Volkswagen brain?
…But until then, I’ma shine to the last sin,
Resurrect through the birth of my son, and live again.