Two$ide - Morgue In G Minor

Red and blue on my bumper, so I take a left turn
Lay the pedal to slumber and I let the rubber burn
Give no fucks, bumping trunks, license plate at home for certain
Down the block, shottys cocked, sirens off, lesson learned
Bitch, I'm loaded, and I'm gunnin', and I'm stirring, and I'm stuntin'
Never flirting, never frontin'
Yeah, we slurring and I'm sunk in to a rut I can't get out of
Tried before and was devout, but them drugs and snakes around us
Them voices in my head the loudest
You go to the block, thugs do flock
Bout 30 Glocks, send him home limp cocked
Clock tickin', tick tock, you hear the door lock
Torture time, bitch, walk the walk, talk the talk
Slice my palm, rub it against the wall
Please don't let me fall back down that hole
'Cause when I'm there better get your chalk
Outline that corpse, you're the next to fall
Pussy motherfucker wanna hit him with a shotty
Wanna leave 'em all bloody, bitches bawling, nose snotty (oh)
Gonna get some business, manufacture dead bodies
My soul do embody what it's like to feel nothing (aye)
Oh, I'm goin home, travel through the fuckin' trenches
Ho damned me to to a night in the fuckin' bed of death, bitch
Sheets will be slick, really slicker than my necklace
I'm fed up with the bitches and really sick of this shit
231 to the 616
Went from a jit to full blown addict
So many deaths at the highest Heights
No ties to the Rich, ain't no Jay Critch
I don't wanna know what you motherfuckers wrote
See the blow in ya nose, yeah, but it ain't a chore
To roll, then a bowl, take ya soul down low
Black coal, black hole, sea of fire, burnt scroll
Get the fuck out my home, wanna roll solo
Don't go and show what you know to ya ho
The seeds ya sow I harvest in the morn
Snap ya nose bone, from the mouth you will foam
And when's the wine and dine?
I'm sick of the 9 to 5
Faded days, sleepless nights I'm rotting away inside
And my boss is like a fly, on my shoulder all the time
Racist motherfucker, wanna put him on the news tonight
I'm breaking my back 12 hours a day
Bottom rung Two$ide, barely getting paid
Break the mold and get ya ass folded,
But that's the system, it's better this way (right?)
They want us to be all work and no play,
But for me that won't be the case
Grab the bat, the ball is your head
Hit a home run how does that blood taste?
Suicidal thoughts all up I my brain (brain)
Cock the nine and then I take aim (aim)
Right at my temple man fuck this shit
Arms shaky, sweaty palms with the death grip

Written by:
B B

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

Lyrics powered by Lyric Find