The ink has dried, so has the crimson stain,
Been washed away, where he lay on the floor.
The poet’s dead, but beat and flow remain.

The flood of bills, he tried to pay in vain.
What else to do than knock on *******’s door?
The ink dried up, so has the crimson stain,

Upon his hand, which has caused so much pain
To rivals, addicts, family, many more
The poet’s dead, but beat and flow remain.

Free goes the officer, by whom he has been slain
No dope, no weapons on that day he bore,
And yet he’s dead, though beat and flow remain.

Forever over is our hood king’s reign,
But he left bars and verses, hoodlums’ lore.
The ink has dried, so has the crimson stain.

His songs forever linger in my brain
As does that bang, that shook me to the core.
The ink has dried, so has the crimson stain
The poet’s dead, but beat and flow remain.