Locked in a room, already impending doom/
Behind bars, spinning stars; I'm screwed/
Reflecting on my past, ripped my heart in two/
Now I hate everything ‘cause I am scrooge/
Come to my cell, I invited you/
Get third degree burns until you're made to collude/
Feed malignant cancer, consumed in food/
And tell a prude to send me nudes or I'm done with you/
You wanna hang with my crew? Bring the loot/
Or my .45 jacket rings the roof/
I'm telling you that I have seen the coop/
Down with the streets, there is pee and poop/
And all the garbage that I've stepped in with boot/
I wish we would have seen the potential in Proof/
But the streets murked him and shot him too/
All for what? ‘Cause the street is a douche/
This is my horror story/
Made up in the corridor/
Locked and imported for/
All these flooring, boring who*es/
Tied together from door to door/
Storing crack money but too poor to deport/
I'm courting all these raconteurs, Louis Pasteur/
Alchemist and chemists are to sort at the court/
I can't afford a tour, ‘cause I Florida explore/
I don't drive a Ford Explorer; I'm not a**orted for the shorted morgues and corporate hoarded monitors and dorks/
Lured in by the city, all employed amba**adors/
Tell ‘em pa** the torch, I'm living pa**ed the porch/
Give ‘em more, I endure the past, though it's back and forth/
Hunting boor, snout and snore, I'll engorge the pork/
Nothing swore the gored shore of aborted wars/
Blood and gore from all distorted restores/
Then it's 50 shades of amours from before/
Yeah
Dev the Follower