| Woman hold her head and cry
|
| Cause her son had been shot down in the street and died
|
| Woman hold her head and cry
|
| Cause her son had been shot down in the street and died
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| When I die, fuck it I wanna go to hell
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| Cause I’m a piece of shit, it ain’t hard to fuckin' tell
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| It don’t make sense, goin' to heaven wit' the goodie-goodies
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| Dressed in white, I like black Tims and black hoodies
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| God will probably have me on some real strict shit
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| No sleepin' all day, no gettin my dick licked
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| Hangin' with the goodie-goodies loungin' in paradise
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| Fuck that shit, I wanna tote guns and shoot dice
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| All my life I been considered as the worst
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| Lyin' to my mother, even stealin' out her purse
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| Crime after crime, from drugs to extortion
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| I know my mother wished she got a fuckin' abortion
|
| Woman hold her head and cry
|
| Cause her son had been shot down in the street and died
|
| Woman hold her head and cry
|
| Cause her son had been shot down in the street and died
|
| I swear to God I just want to slit my wrists and end this bullshit
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| Throw the Magnum to my head, threaten to pull shit
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| And squeeze, until the bed’s, completely red
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| I’m glad I’m dead, a worthless fuckin' buddah head
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| The stress is buildin' up, I can’t
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| I can’t believe suicide’s on my fuckin' mind
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| I want to leave, I swear to God I feel like death is fuckin' callin' me
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| Naw you wouldn’t understand
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| You see its kinda like the crack did to Pookie, in New Jack
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| Except when I cross over, there ain’t no comin' back
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| Should I die on the train track, like Remo in Beatstreet
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| People at the funeral frontin' like they miss me
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| My baby momma kissed me but she glad I’m gone
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| She knew me and her sister had somethin' goin' on
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| I wonder if I died, would tears come to her eyes?
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| Forgive me for my disrespect, forgive me for my lies
|
| Woman hold her head and cry
|
| Cause her son had been shot down in the street and died
|
| Woman hold her head and cry
|
| Cause her son had been shot down in the street and died
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| I reach my peak, I can’t speak
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| Call my nigga Chic, tell him that my will is weak
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| I’m sick of niggas lyin', I’m sick of bitches hawkin'
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| Matter of fact, I’m sick of talkin' |