Your race is betrayed
On the bottom of the food chain, I spit on your grave
You the modern day African capturing slaves
How you live with yourself? You can't escape your face
I put it in the street, they can't escape the taste
There's a dark irony here: Who is the one "capturing slaves," after all? Is it the snitch who helps district attorneys fill prison cells, or is it the dealer who amasses a desperate clientele of addicts? It's a dense moment—one that the pronoun "you" leaves ambiguous—that highlights the album's stone-faced insight into an inner-city economy where black success depends on the exploitation other blacks.
Malice finally acknowledges some psychic trauma, if not regret, on the very last song. "Cruising in the drop and still I feel/ As if I'm nothing more than a hamster in a wheel," he admits.
Enough with the women, they don't see past the chain
I don't see past the ass, two can play the game
Gotta thank God for 'caine, I guess that's the twist
'Cause if I never sold, my rhymes would sound like this
Then he goes silent. It's probably the most haunting moment on the album.