What's the question?  
Why are you flexin'?
Here's the answer; choice of weapons

Yo, The Remainz, kid, why you flexin like a bicep?
Heat on your hip just to get a rep; it ain't worth it 
Just because you pack a biscuit doesn't mean you can't 
Become another statistic; you figure it 
Life's a gamble even for vandalz; I handle mine with minds 
Only unless my chest is under pressure in a contest 
The fear of layin' in wreck causes the stress 
I have to adjust to this mess and pull when it's best

Yo, little big man, feelin' your oats because you're strapped? 
Bustin' a cap at another kid who's black? 
It ain't all that when the shots are flyin' back 
You made a choice, and the choice you made was whack 
Kinda tipsy, with the liquid confidence 
Pullin' your pistol when it doesn't make sense 
To be the bigger man you figure 
But in the end, it don't pay when you're livin' by the trigger

Yeah, it's the master of the who, what, where, and the why 
But, still, I got a problem with seein' my brothers die 
I've been around and lived past the average age of us 
In every obituary, a full page of us 
The game is money, but what about inner wealth? 
The mental, the spiritual, and physical health 
But still, everyday, the city is a test 
That's why some people feel a gun is the best

No doubt I pack protection, but every altercation 
Or situation doesn't deserve blastin'; I mastered precisions 
Choice of weapon - should I peel or peel out? 
My choice of routes may decide my whereabouts

I pack no weapons then the seargeant bargin in 
Ready to bomb a rapper like Saddam, Stikken Moov swarm 
Ready to bust off, like Ron Jeremy, but I chill, G 
Relax and consider lucky to live to see a quarter past three

That's why I wield the steel; yes, my microphone is crazy real 
I'm not the one sellin' out to get the mass appeal 
But jail cells are filled with my peeps 
While the rest are gettin' killed in these ill-ass streets 

So, pick your weapon - a mic or a gun 
I make a sucker run when my tongue stuns; check it 
Leavin' the spot, I seen some wild kids 
One stepped to me, asked me to freestyle, kid 
Meanwhile he flexed a burner on his side 
I looked him in the eye, smiled, and walked to my ride 
He was actin' kinda hard on the surface 
I said to myself that it really wasn't worth it

Yo, you think you're all that, 'cause you pack heat? 
Seein' your own brother play the concrete in defeat 
Tryin' to prove yourself while you put the next man down 
But what goes around, comes back, black; best believe that

You know what I'm sayin'? 
That's all the real heads all over the world 
That realize that this music is real 
That we keep it real like that 
Peace to all my brothers on the third 
And all the real brothers in hip-hop 
It's like a rap's new generation thing, baby 
Peace to Guru 
It's Panche, the wild comanche, suicide