first off, the big clock strokes eleven,
smoking da blunt, and am half ya up ta heaven,
either though i walk around wearing my vest, i feel trapped,
all these pests, callin my name out, stressed.
pulled da trigga and now am lyin here wif a bloody chest.
is it cause am a thug, brung up in da wrong hood,
drowning in my own blood, fresh outta new drugs.
my homie screaming, shoutin having a fit,
'why we all poor bitches, we dont own shit'
we cant do anyfin, and every little bit,
within my life isnt even lagit.
but as i get old, i confess, help me revren,
my life aint da best, but let me get into heaven