| Starin' at Marilyn Monroe’s silhouette
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| While smokin' my first cigarette
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| Listenin' to Marvin ask his father about his death
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| How you shoot a nigga out, then shoot a nigga out?
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| Dead bodies in my dreams, Bob Marley on my couch
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| Pass me the blunt, he was smokin' when he died
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| You really think Elvis Presley committed suicide?
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| I don’t, it’s either kill or you be killed
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| Ten pints of blood per human, ain’t no refills
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| One thing about us humans, nigga, we kill
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| Turkeys, chickens, pigs, each other, fuck us, we will
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| Take a life, lethal injection or free will
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| Tookie got murdered by the pigs, fuck did he kill?
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| That ain’t none of my business, though
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| But I’m the type of motherfucker make it his business, so
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| Open the book and turn that page
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| It reads Arthur Ashe died from AIDS, no
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| That’s murder, nigga
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| Murder
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| Gunfire, death is so quiet, ask why, tell ‘em it’s
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| Murder
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| The sun rise then hide by grey skies, that cry sounds like
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| Murder
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| Murder, murder, murder, murder
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| Murder, murder, murder, murder
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| Malcolm X standing on that stage
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| It was staged for him to see that gauge
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| Murder, nigga
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| Doctor King outside that room
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| Who knew that he would die that soon?
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| That’s murder, nigga
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| JFK sittin' in that drop
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| He waved goodbye, then they blew off his top
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| It’s murder, nigga
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| Diddy seen Big, and Suge watched Pac
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| They both was ridin' passenger when they got shot, it’s murder
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| Who the fuck killed Michael Jackson, his physician?
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| He died slow in his music, you ain’t really listen
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| Now his daughter gettin' slapped by his sister
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| And that’s probably gon' kill they mama
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| So I’m sorry Ms. Jackson, I’m sorry Ms. Houston, sissy
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| Might shed a tear but ain’t no sissy
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| ‘Cause Whitney’s sill with me
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| And her death kinda hurt a nigga
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| So let’s get back to talkin' ‘bout murder, nigga
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| John Lennon got shot in the back
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| And Paul McCartney couldn’t do shit ‘bout that
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| ‘Cause it was murder, nigga
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| Listen, this ain’t about you and me
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| It’s about Trayvon Martin and Huey P
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| And how they shot down Sam Cooke
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| Twelve years of school and it ain’t in one damn book
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| Lee Harvey Oswald ‘bout to serve a sentence
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| From the crowd comes a revolver
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| That’s murder, nigga
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| Gaspin' for air, niggas cling on
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| Tryin' to fight the inevitable, sing on
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| You hear that fat lady warmin' up?
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| The end came without a warning, huh?
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| Them niggas real with them rags on
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| Niggas get killed ‘bout them flags, homes
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| The Game told you what the play was
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| So it don’t matter what you say, cuz
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| Say Blood, these niggas livin' what they die by
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| You out here playin' while these niggas doin' drive-bys
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| If murder was the case that they gave Snoop
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| Then how the fuck you thinking they gon' save you?
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| Them niggas played you, you doin' stand up
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| You a comedian there, boy, put your hands up
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| Don’t turn this to a 1−8-7
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| I have you leanin' on the stairway to Heaven
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| Spittin' blood, these are tales from the hood
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| Suicide sound quicker, but a murder sounds good
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| Wish a motherfucker would try to play me like a toy
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| You get a bullet in your motherfuckin' head, homeboy
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| The people sayin' that a drug overdose killed Hendrix
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| They bullshitted, it was murder
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| Or a plane crash killed Otis Redding
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| That’s how they said it, but it was murder
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| The cops kill us at alarming rates
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| They point they guns at the ones they hate (niggas)
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| If Bin Laden brought the World Trade down
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| Then how the fuck did he die just now?
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| Murder, murder (Murder, murder, kill, kill)
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| (They killin' motherfuckers still)
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| (And I’m just tellin' y’all the real)
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| (Nigga, murder, murder, murder
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| (Nigga, kill, kill, kill, for real) |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Murder , by - The Game. Song from the album The Blackwall Street Vol. 1, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп