| Put any other crew in his place,
|
| I could tell’em how much I love it 'til I’m blue in the face
|
| But they don’t know, swimming in the surface of a tough gutter
|
| Smothered by the pillowcase, serving the Dust Brothers
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| Dangling my keys to apartments
|
| Fell short, my only furniture was a carpet
|
| And Hell’s torch seemed to be the light of my future
|
| An echo in my head saying «I might as well shoot ya!»
|
| Soul for profit, ghosts and goblins
|
| Man I wanna croak, or overdose on Klonopins
|
| My bones malnourished like they able to snap
|
| And while I’m scraping them scraps, the label collapse
|
| Dough shit… getting ambushed by the lynch mob
|
| But I don’t have a choice but to stick with a temp job
|
| Count pages as days go slow
|
| Thinking to myself «Damn, they don’t know…»
|
| «Check out the story""It's goin' now down»
|
| «Survival got me buggin', but I’m alive»
|
| «Check out the story""It's goin' down»
|
| «Make a quick money grip, 'fore yo ass is out»
|
| Where the check is, what’s for breakfast
|
| Lunch out of the question, a buck we stretch it
|
| Listen to the growl, the pain’s relentless
|
| All the change in my couch ain’t enought to pay rent with
|
| I wanna get the mailman and shatter his jaw
|
| What kind of punk brings bills with a stack of catalogs?
|
| The irony’s insane, entirely twisted
|
| Got the fly gold chain but no pot to piss in
|
| What a shame, why do we rhyme, the game is fixed
|
| The only people getting paid is the label, shit
|
| The slavery ship has landed, it’s not just blacks now
|
| 'Cuz anybody that raps get shackled
|
| One style fits all, you wish you signed that big deal
|
| But you don’t see a dime until you sell like six mil
|
| Now you can do big things but straight up though,
|
| Go and ask 'em where your money’s at, they don’t know. |