| Sittin' in the bar, playing Keno on a Wednesday
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| Pumpin' quarters in the jukebox, MJ
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| Rockin' Billie Jean, Jilly nodding off, silly
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| Sniffin' thirty millie beans, wet-brain Willy
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| Flippin' out, what’s he really mean?
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| I can’t hear him, he’s incoherent mmmmmm
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| Between the swearing and the staring, Sharon a cokey-eyed spooky chick
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| Kinda crackhead-ish
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| Bitch got middle-aged hips and a black fetish
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| Tapping a Newpie ash
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| I caught a buzz with her, starin' at her groupie ass
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| Doin' drugs with her, she spoke of a kindergartener
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| Sipping whiskey, telling me that he’ll get into Harvard
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| I been a part of it to benefit demented hardship
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| The streets that I grew on ruined by the scent of garbage
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| What am I doin' here? |
| I can’t escape this place
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| I’m trapped staring in the mirror, standing face-to-face
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| I don’t really need the things I do not have
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| Where I’m from, when they shoot at you, you shot back
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| Everybody knows I rose and it’s not bad
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| But now I’m back in a bar room on Dot Ave
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| Oh! |
| Here I am
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| Back in the same place again
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| Do you wanna know
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| Where I been?
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| Or where I’m gonna go?
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| And when I find my way
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| Tell me where to follow
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| Dorchester, where they pack burners in the whore’s fest
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| More or less, I store four fours up in my drawers
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| Filled with pills, yayo, bullets, warm cans of Coors
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| Yesterday’s wars, burnt bridges of festering thoughts
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| In the honor of excellence
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| Commit seven sins, I live next to hell where heaven ends
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| I murder stories from purgatory and prisoners
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| Dead cultures are twisted in this frigid religiousness
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| Scriptures in the hood, wooden shovels to dig a ditch
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| Figaro, they treat me like a negro who’s getting rich
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| I take a swig 'n swish whiskey, I’m a bit intense
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| So maybe I’ma product of this ignorance
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| It sticks with me, my church is full of serpents
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| I jerk the curtains closed, this time I’m certain
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| The police is lurking, I’m out of work again
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| My best friend just OD’d, I sold some percs to him |