i m respected in this game i ve rocked every spot i ve been in while you can t show your face like islamic women rocking linen but i m stuck living in mom s house without a fucking bed cause these major labels put out wack emcees like pumpkinhead so i ain t touching bread i ve been ducking feds ain t even hustle for myself i spent it on some cunt instead got nothing left every breath is harder than the last when success seems out of reach slipping farther in the past that s why i m trashed sparking up this hash in a session packing up more angel dust than the addict in heaven that s why i m pissed off like having a bladder infection with broken catheters left in my dick when i have an erection it got me liable to snap in a matter of seconds pulling mac 11s like pun from the back of an acura legend i just think of my future past and the present try to capture the essence and find some sort of lasting impression but all i found s a corrupt cop s act of aggression grabbing me and smashing my head in with the back of his weapon that s why i m beyond the blessings of a catholic confession and why i take cash when the plate s passed for collection i ve had it with being the illest rapper to step in lacking success in the game when dudes bite like they don t have a reflection i ve had it with these labels so i m breaking the mold cause they ain t just taking creative control they re taking my soul the reason i m a liar the reason i m a thief the reason that i steal the reason that i cheat is the reason you avoid me when i m walking down the street and it s probably the same reason i ll end up deceased the reason i m a liar the reason i m a thief the reason that i steal the reason that i cheat is the reason that i wild out and riot in the street and it s the same reason my fucking life will never have peace yo i think about hip hop and how they just take it away cause i grew up when wu tang got rotational radio play but nowadays if i say shit i m nothing but a hater til i pull a rusty razor and cut your face like fuck your paper maybe i m mad cause labels use food stamps to pay me but i can t be only one who d rather hear boot camp than jay z so yeah i m underground and my fans are backpackers but at least my fans don t buy mixtapes full of wack rappers i can t front i listen when i m in the club grabbing tits and the bass is so loud i don t hear the trash you re spittin all that glamour glitz and packs of crack you re flipping won t be real til you stop bragging and say it was a bad decision if you re anything like me you re poor with a tortured past getting beat by pigs because your pants are half off your ass ain t tossin cash in photographs with some camera crew you was black and blue in handcuffs on new york avenue that s the truth that s the reason i m almost suicidal feeling out of place like muslims with a jewish bible been taking drama from my baby mama now my mind is gone weight of the world s on my shoulders and eight planets piled on rifle drawn pointed at the cops when you calling them six million ways to die i ll try all of them holding a glock and squeezing until they stop my breathing i know i m crazy don t ask me why i got my reasons 1