I’m flat-lining, Dre, can you jump-start the beat?
Scalpel the static, carve verses through my scarred lungs,
Em’s rage is the drip, every bar a milligram of truth—
I flat-lined in the game, need a doctor, not a ghost.
Sky hooks the chorus like sirens over Compton skies,
Shock paddles spark, 808s pound my ribcage back to life.
Prescription: one more classic, two more scars,
Sign the chart in smoke, let the bass flat-line the pain.