Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Suicidal Thoughts, artist - The Notorious B.I.G.. Album song Ready to Die, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 12.09.1994
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Bad Boy
Song language: English
Suicidal Thoughts |
(Hello? Aw shit, nigga. What the fuck time is it, man? |
Oh god damn. |
Nigga do you know what time it is? |
Aw shit, what the fuck’s goin’on? |
You alright? |
Aw, nigga what the fuck is wrong wit you?) |
When I die, fuck it I wanna go to hell |
Cause I’m a piece of shit, it ain’t hard to fuckin’tell |
It don’t make sense, goin’to heaven wit the goodie-goodies |
Dressed in white, I like black Tims and black hoodies |
God will probably have me on some real strict shit |
No sleepin’all day, no gettin my dick licked |
Hangin’with the goodie-goodies loungin’in paradise |
Fuck that shit, I wanna tote guns and shoot dice |
All my life I been considered as the worst |
Lyin’to my mother, even stealin’out her purse |
Crime after crime, from drugs to extortion |
I know my mother wished she got a fuckin’abortion |
She don’t even love me like she did when I was younger |
Suckin’on her chest just to stop my fuckin’hunger |
I wonder if I died, would tears come to her eyes? |
Forgive me for my disrespect, forgive me for my lies |
My babies’mothers 8 months, her little sister’s 2 |
Who’s to blame for both of them (naw nigga, not you) |
I swear to God I just want to slit my wrists and end this bullshit |
Throw the Magnum to my head, threaten to pull shit |
And squeeze, until the bed’s, completely red |
I’m glad I’m dead, a worthless fuckin’buddah head |
The stress is buildin’up, I can’t, |
I can’t believe suicide’s on my fuckin’mind |
I want to leave, I swear to God I feel like death is fuckin’callin’me |
Naw you wouldn’t understand (nigga, talk to me please) |
You see its kinda like the crack did to Pookie, in New Jack |
Except when I cross over, there ain’t no comin’back |
Should I die on the train track, like Remo in Beatstreet |
People at the funeral frontin’like they miss me My baby momma kissed me but she glad I’m gone |
She knew me and her sista had somethin’goin’on |
I reach my peak, I can’t speak, |
call my nigga Chic, tell him that my will is weak. |
I’m sick of niggas lyin', I’m sick of bitches hawkin', |
matter of fact, I’m sick of talkin'. |
(BANG) |
(hey yo big… hey yo big) |