I woke up to a tune on the radio checker.
An old church stand behind the breakbeat.
Well,
it sounded kinda funky,
so I pumped it,
right?
But rudely interrupted by a neighborhood street fight.
When will you motherfuckers quit?
Every motherfucking morning,
it's the same old bullshit.
I peep to see the thrashing.
Some nigga running with a butcher knife screaming out assassin.
He ran by a friend of mine that bucked him.
His eyes show fear.
That's the reason why he stuck him.
Anyway, that's how I seen it.
You rarely see a nigga kill another nigga,
and he doesn't mean it.
So that's the way I took it.
Anyway,
the boy is dead,
no matter how you look at it.
And life goes on.
I was feeling kinda funny.
Hey, yo, something's wrong.
I went to take a shower, dude.
Bumped into the wall, and I smoothed me through.
Now I'm thinking I'm in trouble.
I reached to touch my face,
but I couldn't feel my beard stubble.
I screamed, oh, Lord, help.
Looked into the mirror,
and I couldn't see myself.
I called up my mom's house and realized something was wrong,
no doubt.
She picked up, said hello in a low tone.
I said, hey, ma, and she hung up the telephone,
sick and looking weary.
My cousin walks in.
I said, what's up, but he didn't hear me.
Started packing up my *, G.
Looked at a picture of me,
put it down,
and said,
rest in peace,
realizing what he said,
man.
I can't talk.
I don't exist.
I'm a dead man.
Yeah, I guess I'm dead, right?
I'm going to the cemetery to peep out at some grave site.
And sure enough, there it is.
My mom and girl talking,
holding on the branch kids.
I look into the box, G.
son of a *.
I don't believe it.
That's me.
Mama kissed me on my head.
Oh, *.
I'm dead.
I'm dead.