| The mobster, long coat and brim hat, staggered in the rain
|
| Fallin, load the .38, breathin heavy, beneath a window pane
|
| Sideways from cop cars, echoes through his ears
|
| And the rain blended with his tears, heart full of fear
|
| He’s exhausted from the loss of blood, his head is drowsy
|
| He thought to his self, «Damn, all the fake niggas around me»
|
| So he fought off a thug, breathin heavy
|
| With the weapon in his hand that he held was deadly
|
| His face was sweaty
|
| Damn, what you do when you at the door of life and death?
|
| Plus you staggered 22 blocks, with a bullet in your chest
|
| Plus you soakin wet
|
| You might catch pneumonia, suddenly you smelt smell death’s foul aroma
|
| It burnt his nose hairs like ammonia
|
| He inhaled deep then fell asleep
|
| Opened his eyes in Hell
|
| Where he saw every nigga he made the sale
|
| Every crack addict with a bad habit
|
| Every drug users and every needle abuser
|
| Never knew he worked for Lucifer
|
| He shut his eyes and opened them again (Yo)
|
| But still, he was there with the fire and brimstone
|
| This is your home (Uh-oh), that’s it, end of poem
|
| (Help me! AGGGH! HELP! HELP!) |