| Sold out shows, but I don’t believe in souls
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| So I doubt these shows are going to leave me feeling whole
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| A couple blunts I blow and now I’m idolized, a role model
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| That’ll get 'em to get me to model clothes
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| I’d rather snort up roxy’s 'til that dope bottle rattles
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| Nope, I’m not about to tackle yet another problem
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| I’ll have to put this one at the bottom
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| I feel like fucking Sodom and Gomorrah, but life is sweet
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| Another black petal falling down right at my fucking feet
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| Another flower rotten, a bouquet of efforts, sour scents are haunting my defeat
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| Sold out funeral, no live nation fee
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| Captivate 100, 000 people, still me and the reaper me
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| 100, 000 want to meet me, I hope they’ll let me be
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| I’m able to paint a picture most people can’t even see
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| Basquiat mixed with Monet when that herron in me
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| Self-critic that’s speaking in cryptic, defying the laws of physics
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| Let me be specific, sadistic, Mr. Pessimistic
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| $lickity $loth, the motherfucker they call the Anti-Christ
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| Used to dream of fans chanting, screaming that «$uicide»
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| Now I get on Instagram and they’re posting my personal life
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| I promise it’s not what it seems
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| Climb up just to fall down a stream
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| Drag me to the river
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| The richer I get, the worse my liver gets
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| No strippers on my zipper
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| Still in my room, keep it dark as I can
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| Remember scraping up change just for cigarettes
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| Immortalized $uicide, no, they won’t forget |