The Word
ever since the egg was furtilized, i had to hurdle guys
through my five and nine i had to bottle up my hurt inside
i remember comin home everyday with two purple eyes
i hid my cry's, closed my eyes never to see a whole blue sky
dad said "son, fuck a gun, show ya fists i'll show ya right
*he blows a kiss, throw ya right, and so you miss, you grow to fight"
i took it in, carried his advise when i would go to school
but even fools'll tell you embarrassment can make you lose your cool
posted up, a G or so i thought with half my hoody up
a bully comes, i swing, he gets more licks in than a pudding cup
just a fight, red cheeks and a couple of fuckin gossip folk
but little did people know, my demons told me it's not a show
it's a stuggle, i would have to get respect and earn my keep
so i returned home, to a hole in the chest, i turned the key
opened it up, retreived my fathers antique widowmaker**
smuggled it into school the next day, wrapped in some withered paper
spotted the kid that talked that shit, blinked and got prepared
took the pistol out, aimed it and the fear in his eyes glared
pulled the trigger, perfect, hit him right in the fuckin forehead
constricted by a deputy, i knew he was for sure dead
felt pretty good about myself, like a man at fifteen
but that was then, i'm in a jail cell now, and i'm fifty
*blows a kiss(metaphore)- means talking shit
**widowmaker- a pistol
just a lesson that words are just words, there only effective if you let them be
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