Vents - Sick | Текст песни

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• Vents
• Sick

[Vents]
Yo, we sick in the mainframe, sick in the mental
We sick in the physical and we sick in the temple
Better give me the pencil and prescription pad
Fuck talking it out, give me the drugs, and my symptoms bad
Repetition, compulsive neurosis
Instant gratification, my appetite ferocious
Liver cirrhosis, living is hopeless
Pharmaceutical pills that they give me to cope with
The sickness, wake up feeling like shit
Pain in my left side and I'm losing my grip
I'm short of breath but I'm sure of death
Blood clot won't stop, no more regrets
I'm high-strung with bad lungs and I'm diabetic
Swine flu, terrified too, I could get it
Got aches and pains and a lump in my throat
I'm the sickest motherfucker you know, let's go

[Chorus]
I'm sick, waking up feeling like shit
I'm sick, sick of waking up feeling like this
I'm sick, in the physical, sick in the mental
Sick in the spiritual and sick in the temple
I'm sick, waking up feeling like shit
I'm sick, sick of waking up feeling like this
I'm sick "... sick of the blood
Sick of the thugs, sick of wrath of the, next man's grudge" - Nas

[Vents]
Yo, I think I've gone mad or society's nuts
Having visions of killing myself slow, anxiety sucks
Think I'm sick or I'm finally sane
They telling me to rejoice and enjoy but I'm trying to refrain
From the carcinogens, and the bars and the drinks
That will mutate cells and make scars and things
From the starch and the fat that harbour heart attack
Cigarette smoke blowing in your artery tract
My suicide's methodical, cutting out lump's not possible
Pathological ways to body you
Mapped out, binge till I black out
Purge till I'm done with the germs then I'm heading back out
Tell me, how do you want it?
Take it in the bowels or the stomach
Coughing up blood sound demonic
And they found out it's chronic, hard time trying to breathe
Six weeks and it's time to leave

[Chorus]

[Vents]
Yo, waking up sick every day, I think something is up
Cultivate, multiply, cells in your chest running amok
Lumps in your breast, haemorrhage flesh
Poor appetite, losing weight fast like mega-depressed
You're fatigued and your lymph nodes bleed deep purple
Bones hurt, no shirt, look at Steve Urkel
I'm locked in a hospital bed in proverbial chains
Dying for my sins, worthy of praise
Holidays in the sun, got a chronic disease
Pathological fun, got lost in the seas
Of excess, self-medicating the stress
Now bleed from the ulcer, finger on the pulse
Of a sick planet with a smack habit
Selling off sheep to the wolves and the fucking pack's rapid
I mutate cells, then mutilate self with a vendetta
Life don't get no better

[Chorus]

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