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"Billy Killer" lyrics by JEAN GRAE
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"Billy Killer"


[Hook:]
Each morning, my man goes downtown
Where everyone falls, and he's lost
In an angry land, he's a little man

[Verse 1:]
9 A.M., eyeing him
My eyes widening
Feeling like it's Groundhog Day, he gotta try again
Riptide tide with thoughts of retiring
Pride flies and he wired me some truth and inspirement
So I can't fail him
He gets the mail and he's off
Like a movie trailer with those long roads and it costs
I wish you could retain the way he's losing his patience
Fucking transit, travel constantly, the fame motivation
Check cashing day, knowing my face on the spot
The bank teller should embrace him when he talks in slots
And not a day of rest, he walks twenty blocks
And brings me what the villain's got
A little money, little presents I could kill 'em rock
Ready stalking with them, having dark visions of choking [?]
And fuck [?], but of course it's his job
And he can't understand why I worry so much
Because he's my man, damn

[Hook]

[Verse 2:]
He's busting his ass like figure skaters falling
Discussing the past label problems, [?] calling him
It's my drama he's falling in; my momma, she stalling him
He's running out the door and she's saying, "Go to the store, " and then
He's rushing out on no food
I feel him getting close to postal
Getting robbed by a nigga for ProTools
And he won't tell me about [?] in Tennessee
I swear that nigga's dead - I could picture the funeral, B
Hollering like soon he'll be picking jewelry
I be like, if I was you, I'd be excluding me
He won't go; he smokes, though, just to get by
They fuck up his high with phone calls
I swear to God, I wish he'd snap
Run up in [?], stab [?] in the back
And flip the table over, take his wallet, kick his throat in
And leave the knife attached to a note, smoking

[Hook]

[Verse 3:]
Man, fuck [?] and [?] and [?]
Colin ran around for a month and niggas ain't calling
I hate him going to these meetings, trying to explain
Why Jean is the next thing; I fiend for the ending
I scream when he's leaving, man, I hate them
He doesn't write no more; drawings, he doesn't make them
Pause, we the relation; calls heeded, forsaken
All Colin's creative; Lord, how does he make it?
Naw, I couldn't, maybe, cause Jean's not as good at
Bottling up feelings, feeling all positive when I shouldn't
I'm going with him, bringing some basement to it
In the ass, find a nice place to place my foot in
But he paces my footing, tries to place the good in
Keeps the paper chase going, no complaints
Why shouldn't I worry that what good am I?
Damn, I'll love the man til I die, c'mon

[Hook]

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