Sam (Is Dead)

Fuck Steve Harvey

This life is a game if you wanna play, countin' all your old mistakes
Livin' it with no delay, so fast I'm gettin' growin' pains
Father didn't show me my instincts to take the open lane
I go insane, all these problems comin' with my growin' age

Blowin' haze, tryna clear the doubt that's sittin' on my brain
I don't complain, but the kid inside me's feelin' so restrained
Gotta stay gold and let desire rekindle the flame
Searchin' for the Fountain of Youth when I'm freein' my brain

Bring in the horns, you hear that fuckin' brass?
That's little boy nigga with the trumpets
Marchin' with the bandwagon, lookin' for his heart
No sleeve, but his hand carry muskets

Lurkin' in the meadows, oblivion
Motherfuck Geppetto, he's a leader, not a puppet
Some professors nuttier than Klump's dick
So think before you blink and ayy-ayy make assumptions

(Niggas) your left, your left, right left
(Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left
(Niggas) your left, your left, your left, right left
(Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left

They want a story, a story I write the shit that I find
Very amusin', 'cause all of they fuckin' stories are borin'
It's really awkward to know that a bunch of kids do adore me
It's like I fathered these fuckers, so you won't find me on Maury

I'm still a kid in my heart, so I have a problem maturin'
But it will come from experiences and shit I see tourin'
I'm like a bird when I'm soarin', really high
And I'm really horny, from watchin' this porn, nope, but

Bring in the horns, you hear that fuckin' brass?
That's little boy nigga with the trumpets
Marchin' with the bandwagon, lookin' for his heart
No sleeve, but his hand carry muskets

Lurkin' in the meadows, oblivion
Motherfuck Geppetto, he's a leader, not a puppet
Some professors nuttier than Klump's dick
So think before you blink and ayy-ayy make assumptions

(Niggas) your left (okay), your left, right left
(Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left
(Niggas) your left, your left, your left, right left
(Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left

Five, four, three, two, and where's Tyler?

Bottom of the countdown, shit ain't been the same
Since I found out Hodgy Beats ghost-wrote for Bow Wow
Now I'm the loud, shock value style, foul-mouth fucker
That your teenage kid likes to bow down

Ridin' around town in Seattle
With the same shotgun that Kurt used to click-clack, boom-pow
Still suicidal, but some assume that I'm cool now
'Cause I got a fuckin' award and my own room now

Nope, but I can flip shit like a couch pillow
And have my death silent like a loose vowel
Um, the bandwagon turned into caboose, so
So, don't let that little nigga trumpet lose sound
Just let him play