The work ethic of Tupac is five hits in the chest, Death Row records
courting Snoop Dog, Dr. Dre – the battle was built by a faux-thug
in a pimp’s outfit who had a college degree and a middle-income home. Bullets are a mouthpiece, a street prophet only after dying for running his mouth.
Blame that on the white man too. Momma being a black panther left little
room for a white man to be decent,
on the level, open to talk and take up old slack.
Genius got wrapped up, tangled up, Biggie too
got his walking papers for playing a roll, lazy-eyed, hard rivalries for money,
fame, enough cash to lift up where they came from.
Blam! Blam! Blam! It’s not the sounds of movies, of rough-necks drunk,
it’s death. It’s futile ambulance rides so more murder
loses the validity, not enough proud work
big enough for everyone. Hard, heated, it’s razor blades and cars
that roll like art. Elegance in the best of them,
earned but born with a charm, a bow, a bounce.
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