Blue collar to corporate blessed the unfortunate

Like when I put my foot down that bitch still aborted it

Stuck the canister under my jacket like the lucky one

'Uh, sir you can't leave with that,' Bitch this my fucking son!

Put with the gun crammed in the glovebox

With 151 drum bottles, I don't drink, they gettin' flung

With lit rags in it, kill 10 step-dads a minute

Still won't be a star till the label as a gimmick

Even if I limit timid com-mi-tive cynics

Each one famous suicide at gunpoint to mimic

You too can be a mock-celeb or the last there is

Or be ghost like money that played Casper in kids

I put a sick twist every other frame design so

You see AIDS victims selling pretzels at a slideshow

With a nine shown I brand and skin 'em

Run out of punchlines when you kids stop standin' in 'em



[Chorus]

Yo Chris I think they think you know too much

Yeah Sis I think you put coke up your nose too much

They cut my hands off so I couldn't hold too much

They try to kill me through my dick with these hoes too much

You stack dough too much

You smack hoes too much

Well you can blame it on the mint leaves I roll too much

They cut my hands off so I couldn't hold too much

Don't stand off, bullet holes show too much



They see weed on dust with an ounce a pound

Is like jumping out of building grabbing napkins on the way down

My impant I scarred, I'm anti-star

Though I shine like one buried underground with yall

And I tried to learn good just wasn't concerned, should







I really be on my sixth bottle of wormwood

My skin is burnin' blisternin' aloe ow

Dragged this big fat bitch in to see Shallow Hal

I drink Jack puff black in Orange County

Bought a gun