How can we be justified? Mortified in the way we lie? Dignified in the way we die? Singing rimes to a way of life? Picking colors, choosing friends? Killing enemies till the bitter end. Is this a question I would ever ask? Not this Rapper, I was not born for such a task. The poetry I layeth, are for those to play with. Take a street and then pretend they all own it till the bitter end. “But reality”; Said the Rapper was never a friend. Not when Queen-Crack runs the street, like a diseased whore, her Pimp rents out to the lowest bidder. Or a hooker who says “Oh, baby you know I ‘ain’t’ no quitter, Don’t I ‘got’ a nice ass? Baby I need some cash, I won't have enough for the day”. But Reality steps in and we hear her pimp say;
“Fuck that shit bitch! You better give me my pay!” While King-H, is no better, in fact much worse. Because, in reality it’s all just a matter of who gets paid first. Then it’s “Give me your money you scum sucking dog.” And when all is said in done; Asked the Rapper. Who has really won? Who has in reality, in the end, really gotten the upper-hand? No one but the Dealer-Man.