Hey you little rich kid, what’s your beef?
Come and tell the Grym Reaper all of your grief
You asked for a Benz and you only got a Jeep
Your pop’s got ends, but yo he’s mad cheap
Maybe you’re a b****** child you think
Mom and dad are white and you’re dark as ink
Maybe you’re Sicilian with a tan
But you hate lasagna and the pizza man
Now you stand on the grave digga plot and
You’re singing the blues about the rough life you’ve got
Not! You don’t wanna live no more
I guess you’re really ready for the grave yard tour
When you get home, just seal up your windows and you doors
Turn your oven on high for about four hours
Light you a blunt, kiss your a** goodbye
You gassed yourself, ’cause it’s a suicide