Don’t live to fight, fight to live.
My first words was thug for life and papa pass the mack.
June 16, 1971, mama gave birth to a Hell rasing heavenly son.
Well, the first two days in prison, I had to go through what life is like when you’ve been smoking weed for as long as I have and then you stop. Emotionally, it was like I didn’t know myself.
Let me say for the record, I am not a gangster and never have been. I’m not the thief who grabs your purse. I’m not the guy who jacks your car. I’m not down with the people who steal and hurt others. I’m just a brother who fight back.
Mama raised a hellraiser why cry, That’s just life in the ghetto, do or die.
The people made me from the littlest crack head to the biggest baller so if i am bad its because of the bay and if i am good its because of the bay.
The hard times make a true friend afraid to ask.
They wanna bury me im worried. Im loosin my mind look down the barrel of my nine and my visions blurry. Fallen to pieces am I guilty? I pray to the lord but his laws be unfortunate because im guilty.
What I learned in jail is that I can’t change. I can’t live a different lifestyle – this is it. This is the life that they gave and this is the life that I made.
America wants its respect.
If that’s what the court can do, then punish me more then I’ve been punished already.
And thats the way it was and thats the way the cookie crumbles.
I’m 23 years old. I might just be my mother’s child, but in all reality, I’m everybody’s child. Nobody raised me; I was raised in this society.
And even though i act crazy I gotta thank the lord that you made meh.
Somebody help me, tell me where to go from here cause even Thugs cry, but do the Lord care?
Can you picture my prophecy?
Thug Life to me is dead.
It’s hard to care when no one loves you.
I worked hard all my life as far as this music business. I dreamed of the day when I could go to New York and feel comfortable and they could come out here and be comfortable.