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Lord Finesse

"Suicide"

[Intro: The Notorious B.I.G.]
When I die, f*ck it, I wanna go to hell
'Cause I'm a piece of sh*t, it ain't hard to f*ckin' tell
It don⁠—
When I die, f*ck it, I wanna go to hell
'Cause I'm a piece of sh*t, it ain't hard to f*ckin' tell
It don⁠—

[Verse: The Notorious B.I.G.]
When I die, f*ck it, I wanna go to hell
'Cause I'm a piece of sh*t, it ain't hard to f*ckin' tell
It don't make sense, goin' to heaven with the goodie-goodies
Dressed in white, I like black Timbs and black hoodies
God'll prob'ly have me on some real strict sh*t
No sleepin' all day, no gettin' my di*k licked
Hangin' with the goodie-goodies, loungin' in paradise
f*ck that sh*t, I wanna tote guns and shoot dice
All my life I been considered as the worst
Lyin' to my mother, even stealin' out her purse
Crime after crime, from drugs to extortion
I know my mother wish she got a f*ckin' abortion
She don't even love me like she did when I was younger
Suckin' on her chest just to stop my f*ckin' hunger
I wonder; if I died, would tears come to her eyes?
Forgive me for my disrespect, forgive me for my lies
My baby mother's eight months, her little sister's two
Who's to blame for both of them?
I swear to God I want to just slit my wrists and end this bullsh*t
Throw the Magnum to my head, threaten to pull sh*t
And squeeze until the bed's completely red
I'm glad I'm dead, a worthless f*ckin' buddha head
The stress is buildin' up, I can't— I can't believe
Suicide's on my f*ckin' mind, I wanna leave
I swear to God I feel like death is f*ckin' callin' me
But nah, you wouldn't understand
You see it's kinda like the crack did to Pookie in New Jack
Except when I cross over, there ain't no comin' back
Should I die on the train track like Ramo in Beat Street
People at the funeral frontin' like they miss me
My baby mama kiss me, but she glad I'm gone
She know me and her sister had somethin' goin' on

[Outro: The Notorious B.I.G.]
(When I die, f*ck it, I wanna go to hell)
('Cause I'm a piece of sh*t, it ain't hard to f*ckin' tell)
(It don⁠—)
(When I die⁠—)
I reach my peak, I can't speak
Call my n*gga Chic, tell him that my will is weak
I'm sick of n*ggas lyin', I'm sick of b*tches hawkin'
Matter of fact, I'm sick of talkin'

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