Last Days

Body Count

Last days,

last days.

As I stare off the stage and try to

understand why you feel that I am

someone you can id with, how?

When you and I come from two totally polar opposite lifestyles.

Under normal circumstances I would be

waking you and your rich parents up at gunpoint.

Demanding the combination to the wall safe.

While your little sister screams suffering from pistol-whipped pain.

Or looking back at you in a courtroom

filled with absolutely none of my peers.

Why are you here? Is this some voyeuristic bullshit?

See black man sing?

Or maybe, just maybe, you've been subjected to so many audio drive by's

and gang shootings that you yourself have

become numb to the pain like me.

And you - check this out - have become

insane from overdoses of reality.

Well stomach this, at the rate we're

going right now white boy, yeah you, you

and I will die holding each other's throats.

That's real, the world's at war, we're at war.

Check yourself, don't be me check your goddamn self.

It's goin down 1997, see the light, red

lasers rip through my neighborhood at night, time is short.

Homocide is the number one sport.

Last days,

last days,

these are the last days.

So now that all the reality's soaked, I and

you start to reanalyze every word I ever said, am I a racist?

Or am I just someone who tells it how the fuck it is?

Well the truth of the thing is I was raised on crime.

Walking through an environment so filled with so much hate,

honesty I do not feel that you are able to

comprehend the magnitude of the evil.

But trip this, there were no white faces there.

Just blck on black genocide.

The only white men there were the cops

that showed up late in the fourth to outline

the teenaged bodies in chalk.

So who do I hate? Do I hate you? Do I hate myself?

Or possibly am I intelligent enough to only

hold the conditions of the ghetto itself to blame? - Not!

Who creates the conditions?

Who stop