Poppin' these melatonin, right after that oxycotin, and this switchblade got me feelin' like Conan.
I hear the dial tone and,
Beep.
Yo, I'm sorry for calling drunk again.
I'm sorry for getting your brother killed again.
And I'm sorry for the funeral I was truant.
I know I'm shit. That's why I'm smoking cigarettes,
getting fucked up on beer,
and poppin' prescriptions.
Every call I give and receive with you fills me with fear.
Like a deer
in the headlights.
I freeze, every eloquent excuse extinguishes in my mind.
Try, please try to forgive me.
Lemme switch it up.
Sup, sup.
I can't believe how much I fuckin' drink.
My whole life is coordinated to destroy my kidneys.
This is proven by the booze smelling vomit in the sink.
Whole body doubled over, rationalizing
that it ain't
nothing but, a thing.
Nowadays I'm this close to huffing paint.
Anything to take my mind off that sharp pain.
God damn, this fuckin' rhymes are lame.
Fuck it, TK.
Sip some more happy juice, up yo game.
Find the courage to ask out a chick to stick your dick in.
Go on, get it over with.
I thought you didn't wanna be a virgin.
Fuck you, shut the hell up inner demons.
This 100 proof is the only thing between me and Tyler Durden.
Between me and fuckin murderin'.
Nobody knows what my fuckin' burden is.
But I can bet it's a lot less
than yours is.
It doesn't make me strong, but it gets me along.
I was writing this whole rap while drunk off peppermint schnapps.
I'm a mixture of a wigga, skinhead, and greaser, runnin' from the cops.
Crazy white boy, I'm never going to get caught with some green pockets,
you understand?
Sayin' I'm the man, but I'm just The Kid.
Raised on Jack Daniels and weed that'll take you on a trip.
I used to come to school with a busted lip
and
bruises on my skin.
That stopped happenin' since.
Because that fuckin' bully mysteriously got his throat slit.
Teach you to fuck with Q-Tip
you pussy ass bitch!
On Alden bumpin' some fuckin' Logic, Mr. Young Sinatra on the Brix.
Our heads turnin' when we see a fly honey or a nice car.
Well, when I'm not loadin' up on some Moonshine, out a jar.
Or tryna make it by writin' bars.
I'll stick to what I know: Gettin' shit faced and eating out sophomores.
She says we're just friends.
Yeah, I get it that you're fifteen
and don't wanna get caught hooking up with a freshie.
It's just so damn tempting
to ask you out and
tell the team that
I ate you out on my own fucking couch!
I understand
that the last guy
you were with was a douchebag,
and I am ready to take swings at the fucking fag,
with Young Cutla and Fingers gettin' the body bag.
I am loyal, Royal to the end.
That fucker "M" will
follow the trend of assassinated
presidents.
People may like him.
But on his tombstone it'll read
"Murdered by
the
Almighty
Royal Crew,
503.
Eighty
Seventh and Alden."
Teach him to fuck with a black man, and two woods from the same neighborhood that the Brix in.
Our families Folkin' and Compton.
That's right, we got connections.
Swit-Swit-Switch it back.
Back to the depression,
gotta tell my real story man.
Lately, I've been second guessing every decision.
Tryna get back in the drug business,
so that when I'm older I can afford an Impala or a Cutlass.
Now don't you dare get it twisted.
That I'm some rich cracker
from the burbs.
From straight OG's I learned.
Whether they Crip or Aryan Brotherhood.
Don't you dare think I'm a nerd for wearin'
suspenders.
I'll bust your fuckin' head open with a brass knuckles.
Fuck yeah I would.
Fuck yeah I should.
Fuck yeah I could.
Cigs,
booze,
and prescriptions.
That's my diet in repetition.
Vodka, whiskey, schnapps I be sippin'.
Helpin' me swallow all 40 of these motherfuckin' melotonin.
Fuck the police! Comin' straight outta the Rose City!
And when you droppin' ones at a strip club,
I'mma be gettin sexy bitches, at age Fifty when I'm lookin' like Ms. -fuckin'- Daisy.
