| No justice, no peace
|
| People fill the streets
|
| Many of fine speech
|
| When that died down, still you and the police
|
| Murder by numbers, 1, 2, 3
|
| Better have you a piece!
|
| Better have you a college degree
|
| Better move where it don’t be sweet
|
| Never gon' be what you want it to be
|
| It is what it is
|
| Brutus slid the shiv between Julius' ribs
|
| Two types of people in the world, kid, those who load the guns and those who dig
|
| Rhetorical question: Can I live?
|
| Found the place of your final resting
|
| Dance the jig
|
| Fiddle under my chin
|
| Pirouette spin in a pair of Timbs
|
| Heard em on the stairs, pulled the pin
|
| Either which way they coming in, might as well go for the win
|
| We all got it coming
|
| Smooth her skirt, make sure her shirts buttoned
|
| He said nothing
|
| What would you say?
|
| Never told her husband
|
| Just sauteed the onions
|
| A good man is hard to find
|
| Fruit of the poison vine
|
| Gin and tonic with the lime rind
|
| Kept that balance
|
| Another bottle of wine, accept that challenge
|
| Use untruth to fill that silence
|
| Kids in they rooms listening to nullified nihilists
|
| Still stylish, ultraviolence
|
| Credit to his race who gives credit to his stylist
|
| Boss said «Any questions?»
|
| I said «Where's Wallace?»
|
| («String, where the fuck is Wallace?»)
|
| «Huh? |
| String, where the fuck is Wallace?»
|
| («Huh? String. String. Look at me. Look at me! Where the fuck is Wallace? Huh?!
|
| I don’t want this payless wearing motherfucking representing me.
|
| I’mma get my own man. |
| Alright? |
| So just get back in your car and get the fuck
|
| back down south.»
|
| «Alright you stupid motherfucker. |
| You made your decision.») |