Art Of Words: m.A.A.d. city

If I told you I killed a nigga at 16, would you believe me? Or see me to be innocent Kendrick you seen in the street with a basketball and some Now & Laters to eat? If I mentioned all of my skeletons, would you jump in the seat? Would you say my intelligence now is great relief? And it’s safe to say that our next generation maybe can sleep with dreams of being a lawyer or doctor instead of boy with a chopper that hold the cul de sac hostage? Kill them all if they gossip, the Children of the Corn. They vandalizing, the option of living a lie, drown their body with toxins. Constantly drinking and drive, hit the powder then watch this flame that arrive in his eye; this a coward, the concept is aim and they bang it and slide out that bitch with deposits. And the price on his head, the tithes probably go to the projects. I live inside the belly of the rough Compton, U.S.A. Made me an Angel on Angel Dust.


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