They say there's a thin line between genius and insanity... Pac, I think we both danced on that line, didn't we? Yeah... Shady Records... Death Row... Same war. Different trenches.

I was born with a fist in the air, a target painted on my back, Mama raised a Panther, taught me how to counter-attack. They wanna see me dead or locked in a cage, Just 'cause I speak the truth, spit fire on the page. I'm screaming from the Westside, where the angels fear to fly, Where little kids get high just to stop the tears they cry. They call me paranoid, but the crosshairs are real, I'm fighting for my people, I'm fighting how I feel. I see the system breaking, I see the future bleed, Planting seeds of revolution with this Thug Life creed. Two sides of a bullet, same pain, same rage, One writes the poetry, one just turns the page. Trapped in the game, can't find the exit door, What are we really fighting for? (What we fighting for?)

Yeah, check the method, I'm the caliber they never measured, White boy from Detroit, but my pain's your pleasure. You talk about the struggle? I lived it in a trailer, Fought with my own mother, met the devil and I hailed her. I'm a loose cannon, a walking contradiction, A victim of addiction, a lyrical mortician. I cut the beat open, I vivisect the rhythm, You talk 'bout the system? I am the schism. They tried to box me in, told me I don't belong, So I wrote a song to prove that everybody wrong. I'm the nightmare you see when the TV's static, A walking panic attack, spastic, erratic. I'm the ghost of rap, the shadow in the alley, You wanna battle Slim? You better come correct, you tally.

They wanna silence the black man... They wanna silence the white trash... But the message is the same... Just different color of the stash... We spit it for the masses, until the casket closes!

Two sides of a bullet, same pain, same rage, One writes the poetry, one just turns the page. Trapped in the game, can't find the exit door, What are we really fighting for?

Yo, I'm sick of being famous, I'm sick of the cameras! I'm sick of the police, I'm sick of the scanners! I'm sick of the fake friends, the snakes in the grass! I'm sick of the poverty, man, I'm sick of the past! I'm sick of the radio, they don't play the real! I'm sick of the record labels, and the deals they steal! I'm sick of the hypocrisy, the politics, the lies! I'm sick of watching my homies watch their mothers cry! I'M SICK OF IT! I'M SICK OF THIS WAR!

See... it's not black and white. It's the haves versus the have-nots. And we... we just got the pens and the guns to write about it.