I've been fukked over, left for dead, dissed and forgotten
Luck ran out, they hoped that I'd be gone, stiff and rotten
Y'all just piss on me, shyt on me, spit on my grave (uh)
Talk about me, laugh behind my back
but in my face
Y'all some "well wishers," friendly acting, envy hiding snakes
With your hands out for my money, man, how much can I take?
When these streets keep calling, heard it when I was sleep
That this Gay-Z and Cockafella Records wanted beef
Started cocking up my weapon, slowly loading up this ammo
To explode it on a camel,
and his soldiers, I can handle
This for dolo and it's manuscript, just sound stupid
When KRS already made an album called Blueprint
First, Biggie's ya man, then you got the nerve to say that you better than Big
dikk sucking lips, why not you let the late, great veteran live