What happened in hip hop that got Pac and Big shot?

The thicks blocks, now every rapper claim he let his clip pop

But even myself tote a gun, and know to run than get shot

I've been there before now I'm fuckin' with Doc

Gotta do the Calvin Broadus numbers

If not I pitch rocks, anticipatin' my incarceration

Media think I'm fakin' like Mason, but when it comes to mace

Fuck R. Kelly, I don't take it in the face

I find out who sprayed it, and I'm puttin' you under the pavement

No Buddhist priest, Catholic, or Baptist pastor can save him

I'm far from religious, but I got beliefs, so I put canary yellow diamonds in my Jesus piece

I came back from the dead without a part of my chest

Laid in a hospital bed on cardiac arrest

I waited for three years while everybody else dropped

Now I understand why Nas did a song with his pops

I'm Ready To Die without a Reasonable Doubt

Smoke Chronic and hit it Doggystyle before I go out

Until they sign my Death Certificate, All Eyez On Me

I'm still at it, Illmatic, and that's The Documentary

Ready To Die without a Reasonable Doubt

Smoke Chronic and hit it Doggystyle before I go out

Until they sign my Death Certificate, All Eyez On Me

I'm still at it, Illmatic, and that's The Documentary

The Documentary

If I die my ****

Fuck it, I did a song with Mary Blige, my ****

Got a hook from Faith, no verse from Jay

I guess on Westside Story he thought I spit in his face

Told Ed Lover & Moni Love I was talkin' to Ja

With that Maybach line, it was payback time

Keep fuckin' with me ****, I'll put you under me

Take your car and trade it in for eight 300 Z's

If you cross my T, I'll dot your eyes

You'll do life in a cemetery, I'll do mine with Shyne

Come home sit in the throne with my legs crossed

And my Air Forces, middle finger up, fuck the world

'Cause I'm feelin' like Puff when Life After Death hit

Mo' money, mo' problems and I lost my best friend

I'm the second dopest **** from Compton you'll ever hear

The first **** only put out albums every seven years, haha

Let me tell you why I do this shit

I'm a son of a gun 'cause moms was a Hoover Crip

First day I got signed I had to prove I spit

Freestyle with Busta Rhymes

Son, duke is sick

The protege of Doc Dre, I could finally put the shoes on

Now that the rumors of Rakim and Cube gone

They say Truth Hurts, sunk like quick sand

Don't stop me in traffic and ask about Hittman

I gotta restore the feelin' that crawled from under the rock

After Tha Dogg Pound crushed the buildings

I got a family to feed, I'm the middle of nine children

We can talk about a loan after I sell 5 million

If I tell you I ain't Game and I don't know Dre

You gon' do me like Xzibit and cut half of my face?

I take all the credit for puttin' the west back on the map

If you ain't feelin' that, guess I'm Guerrilla Black

I'm Ready To Die without a Reasonable Doubt

Smoke Chronic and hit it Doggystyle before I go out

Until they sign my Death Certificate, All Eyez On Me

I'm still at it, Illmatic, and that's The Documentary

Ready To Die without a Reasonable Doubt

Smoke Chronic and hit it Doggystyle before I go out

Until they sign my Death Certificate, All Eyez On Me

I'm still at it, Illmatic, and that's The Documentary

The Documentary