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