BOOK OF THE DEAD

[Intro]
Oh god, I'm bleeding
Oh god, I'm bleeding
Oh god, I'm dead
Oh god, you're dead

[Verse 1]
Uh
These amateurs feeding my sleep paralysis demon
The grim reaper appealing, the grip deepen my evil
The pen hit like a needle, the Ink seep through the easel
The beat drop, it be bop, I'm Spike Spiegel
We quite regal, only chop it with the right people
The chalk talking is lethal, but y'all jargon is see through
These dawgs barking, they leave you with gnaw marks for no reason
I'm Karl Marx to you hеathens, Allah got me through seasons
And y'all wouldn't bеlieve it, we all racing to Eden
That god place like a beacon, the raw taste got us teething
The heart aching is even, my jaw break on the cement
The law hate when we breathing, they call jakes to appease us
I partake in the evening and car take with no keys in
They call names on subpoenas so I'm aiming the heat in
The cops face for my freedom, then hop states like I'm leaving
A car chase and I'm speeding, the wrong fate, I need healing
The crooks, robbers and villains who took stock of the winnings
Enough talk of the killings, just go pin it on niggas
The gold diggers is different, they soul missing on missions
The road triggered by missiles, that blood money gon' hit you
Rip skin, muscles and tissue, they been ducking the issue
I don't love you or miss you, especially with the pistol
I'm pissed and my patience brittle, a fist and a ancient sickle
Had to find a way to move the pen, word to Tommy Pickles, uh

[Interlude: 2Pac (Ghost)]
You motherfuckers can't stop me
Even if I die, I'm gonna be a fucking problem
Do you believe in ghosts?

[Verse 2]
Writing rhymes, the only way I got through peril
'Cause where I'm from, they boxed us in 'til the block so narrow
And the cops gats b great, no F. Scott Fitzgerald
They was at our door with the Lord like Christmas carols
Shit is frightening, I might Mike Tys' 'em
Or write like Dyson, a real nigga license
I'm right in between Farrakhan and Jihadi John
Darker than the ambiance of, Malcolm at the Audubon
Click-clack, I be gone all day, I'm blacker than Dante
On Myrte and Broadway, they murder in broad day
Mysterious, God's ways, ain't waiting for Yahweh
I rage against the machine, I had to get it the con way

[Outro: Malcolm X]
Your soul isn't going anywhere
Your body isn't going anywhere
Nothing is happening after that
When you're dead, you are done
That's it
You can forget it
What about the resurrection?
He says that our people are dead
Negroes are dead
Walking zombies
You're the one that the book is talking about, who is dead
Dead to the knowledge of yourself
Dead to the knowledge of your own people
Dead to the knowledge of your own God
Dead to the knowledge of the devil
Why, you don't even know who the devil is
You think the devil is someone down inside the ground
That's gonna burn you after you're dead
Why, the devil is right here on top of this Earth
And he's giving you hell everyday
And you're still too dead to see it