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Painkillers

On behalf of Pan Am Airlines, we'd like to be the first

To welcome you to New York City.

We'd like to thank you for flying Pan Am.

The local time is 6:45 AM and the temperature is 89 degreesI've been up all night

On the red eye flight

The dawn's early light

Got the skyline bright

I'm in the back of a car service

My driver's kind of nervous

'Cause I'm tokin' on a blunt that's fat

You say you know where you at

I say I know where I am

And if you really want a tip

Then Mr. don't get flam

I ain't tryin' to be rude

And I ain't stressin' you gramps

But this shit right here

It be the breakfast of champs

I've been tokin' on this since thirteen years old

And when I look up at my wall I see platinum and gold

And there ain't nobody sneezin' at the money I fold

And I ain't here for your pleasin'

So put that shit on hold

Just keep your mouth shut and get me to the hotel

And turn the radio up while I finish this LWelcome back to the Five Seasons Mr. Ford, your usual room

Is ready and waiting. Let me take your luggage.

If you need anything while

You're staying, just let me know.

Good lookin' out

That's for you.I hop out my car

Step into the lobby

Everybody's on the floor (get down)

It's a motherfuckin' robbery

The shit's in progress

I can feel the stress

I wanna silently to God how I get in this mess

They tell me to freeze and get down on my knees

Between my jewels and my cash

I'm holdin' thirty five G's

They told me to run it

So I got bold and I front it

And like Slick Rick said

I know I shouldn't have done it

'Cause now they standin' over me

Watchin' me bleed

Damn, I got to quit smokin' all this weed

There's a pain in my chest

But yo, I must be blessed

Because before I faded out I saw the EMS

The paramedics

They greet me with some anesthetics

They killin' my pain

They screamin' my name

Tryin' to keep me in the conscious world

I'm thinkin' about my mom

My sister and my girl

I'm prayin' to God

Don't let this go too far

As they rush me into the St. Luke's O.R.

They pull the bullets out my chest

And give 'em back in a jar

Now I'm wearin' this scar

'Cause I tried to play hardMr. Ford, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.

What are you talkin' about?

It would appear that one of the bullets grazed your spine and damaged the cord.

So what are you tryin' to tell me?

Well, it's safe to say I don't think you'll be jumpin' around anymore.Yo, this can't happen to me

I just can't believe it

Trapped in a wheelchair

A paraplegic

There ain't no rehab

There ain't no therapy

For the rest of my life

Somebody's gotta take care of me

And people stare at me

With pity in their eyes

And every mornin' I rise to a life of despise

And ever night I think I might never rock the mic again

'Cause my brain's fucked up on percacet and vicadin

Might as well be heroin pulsin' through my veins

Gotta kill these pains

Or blow out my brains

To free me from these chains

I'm trapped in this physical hell

To walk again I just might sell my soul

And I'm only twenty somethin' years old (years old)

Songwriters

SCHRODY, ERIK/BARDIN-GREENBERG, SEBASTIANPublished by

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