Pissed It All Away - Slaine

Yeah, yeah

I don’t wanna be famous

I just wanna be rich

Just forget what my name is

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

My nose scabbing up from sniffing, I had enough

And I had enough of rapping, I used to have it rough

I was mad at fuckin' life, thinking I was bad at luck

I had a fuckin' wife, I was always up at night

In the hallways I would write with the vengeance

And the engines of depression, they were revving

Go to sleep at seven

Wake up at whenever, it’s my little slice of heaven

This is who I dreamed of being ever since eleven

Pills rattle in my script bottles and I love the sound

Momma, I’ma go and get high — Ain’t never coming down

Momma I’ma rock star, momma I’m a fool

On TV but I never took no drama in a school

See me when I walk around, really you’re the last

Snap pictures of my fat face, want my autograph

I should watch what I’m saying cause it’s reaching the kids

But I’m drunk all the time and I speak what I live

I just wanna be rich, bitch

I don’t wanna be famous

I don’t believe in my own hype

Or your lies either, I just know what the game is

So when they lay me six feet deep

Trust me, this is all to say

How he came from the bottom and he rose to the top

Then he pissed it all away

Is he, is he dead?

Is he drunk?

Is he dizzy?

Is he really illy illy as he says?

Is he really

Getting busy?

Is he all around the world with a skizzy

From the city that he reps?

Yeah — He’s still there getting shitty on the steps

Juke you with the right, then he hit you with the left

Hit you with a pistol

Get you, split you ripping through your flesh

It’s habitual, it’s visceral assisting you with death

I’m positioning the christening, a baby with the rabies

It’s a vicious thing, it’s crazy

Piss my life away on a lazy

Sunday afternoon with a dime on the Patriots

A hoodrich junkie with the mind of an atheist

So what’s the make and the model of the pot you piss in?

When your Cadillac is repo’ed, your chart position

Is dropping low enough to cause a fucking heart condition

You’re a middle aged overweight rock musician

Narcissism is dark — It’s a harsh condition

Once the glory and people kissing your ass is missing

Now your blood is in the water and the sharks are fishing

Public tearing you apart with the stock precision

See, once upon a time you had to cling to the fame

And became another figure with a name

Used to be a lay-up on your way up

Now you’re struggling to stay up

Tell the player no one’s bigger than the game

So I wouldn’t be the first and I’d hardly be the last

Out in Hollywood on molly, but I’ll probably be as trash

Parlay with the rich with Bacardi in my glass

With the audience that left for a party in the past