Kill Yourself (Pt. II)

They figured me a dead motherfucker
Calling me James Spleen
Without a cause of death, I be the reaper with the black hood on his head
Yung Snow with the blood-red sled

Puppet master
Bodies hanging on a thread motherfucker
Got a grey blade tatted on my wrist
I don't really need to cut it anymore and I don't really need a bitch
Let her rot in the hole
Months later she was found just a skull
She was missing all her bones
Got her headless skeleton hanging on my wall looking elegant
Black suede element
Packing blades
Lacking Benjamins

Horns on my head looking like the tusks of a grey elephant
Looking for my medicine
Plucking the bud off of a nug
Roll it up in a blunt
Now I feel fucking dead again
Looking for a place to belong
So I say fuck God fuck the motherfucking President
Address the American residence with just a knife and the help of a relative

Yeah, that's $lick $loth
Both of us buried Ruby da Cherry under a criss-crossed cross
Covered up with a little bit of moss
Looking like a glossed out Yung Jack Frost
Paid the cost to be the boss
Now I ain't fucking dead, but my life has been lost

Isn't it so convincing how I'm breathing down your neck?
Junkies in the back loading up the TEC
Fuck her one time now I'm done
Homicide any time for the thrill
One, two, three, four pills
You know a junkie can't afford to get ill
See me I don't fuck with you suckas
They call me the shooter like I play for Rucker
Smokey on Friday they call me Chris Tucker
I swear on my life I don't fuck with you fuckers
$uicide, cock it back one time and I shoot it
Keep it low-key always gotta keep it moving

Bitches be worried bout what I am doing
'Cause they love $licky so much all because of my music
It's the MAC with the gat, that goes click-clack, shoot a motherfucker's back
Brains go splat
No time for a rat ho