Thoughts Under the Xmas Tree
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 with the goodie-goodies
Dressed in white
I like black Timbs and black hoodies
God'll 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 wish 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 baby mother's eight months
Her little sister's two
Who's to blame for both of them?
I swear to God I want to just
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' buddha head
The stress is buildin' up
I can't I can't believe
Suicide's on my fuckin' mind, I wanna leave
I swear to God I feel like
Death is fuckin' callin' me
But nah, you wouldn't understand
Nigga, talk to me please, man! You see
It's 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 Ramo in Beat Street?
People at the funeral frontin'
Like they miss me
My baby mama kiss me, but she glad I'm gone
She know me and her sister
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'