Sam (Is Dead)

Fuck Steve Harvey
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 This life is a game if you wanna play, countin' all your old mistakes
 Livin' it with no delay, so fast I'm gettin' growin' pains
 Father didn't show me my instincts to take the open lane
 I go insane, all these problems comin' with my growin' age
 Blowin' haze, tryna clear the doubt that's sittin' on my brain
 I don't complain, but the kid inside me's feelin' so restrained
 Gotta stay gold and let desire rekindle the flame
 Searchin' for the Fountain of Youth when I'm freein' my brain
 Bring in the horns, you hear that fuckin' brass?
 That's little boy nigga with the trumpets
 Marchin' with the bandwagon, lookin' for his heart
 No sleeve, but his hand carry muskets
 Lurkin' in the meadows, oblivion
 Motherfuck Geppetto, he's a leader, not a puppet
 Some professors nuttier than Klump's dick
 So think before you blink and ayy-ayy make assumptions
 (Niggas) your left, your left, right left
 (Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left
 (Niggas) your left, your left, your left, right left
 (Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left
 They want a story, a story I write the shit that I find
 Very amusin', 'cause all of they fuckin' stories are borin'
 It's really awkward to know that a bunch of kids do adore me
 It's like I fathered these fuckers, so you won't find me on Maury
 I'm still a kid in my heart, so I have a problem maturin'
 But it will come from experiences and shit I see tourin'
 I'm like a bird when I'm soarin', really high
 And I'm really horny, from watchin' this porn, nope, but
 Bring in the horns, you hear that fuckin' brass?
 That's little boy nigga with the trumpets
 Marchin' with the bandwagon, lookin' for his heart
 No sleeve, but his hand carry muskets
 Lurkin' in the meadows, oblivion
 Motherfuck Geppetto, he's a leader, not a puppet
 Some professors nuttier than Klump's dick
 So think before you blink and ayy-ayy make assumptions
 (Niggas) your left (okay), your left, right left
 (Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left
 (Niggas) your left, your left, your left, right left
 (Niggas is comin') your left, your left, your left, right left
 Five, four, three, two, and where's Tyler?
 Bottom of the countdown, shit ain't been the same
 Since I found out Hodgy Beats ghost-wrote for Bow Wow
 Now I'm the loud, shock value style, foul-mouth fucker
 That your teenage kid likes to bow down
 Ridin' around town in Seattle
 With the same shotgun that Kurt used to click-clack, boom-pow
 Still suicidal, but some assume that I'm cool now
 'Cause I got a fuckin' award and my own room now
 Nope, but I can flip shit like a couch pillow
 And have my death silent like a loose vowel
 Um, the bandwagon turned into caboose, so
 So, don't let that little nigga trumpet lose sound
 Just let him play