Runway dripping like I bled on the seams,
Saint Laurent boots stompin’ dreams in the beams.
Gold fangs flash when I grin at the fraud,
Countin’ dead friends in my iPod.
Racks in the duffel, guilt in the duffel,
Tears on the visor, still speedin’, no shuffle.
Takeoff’s loud, but the crash gon’ be quiet—
Heaven don’t want me, Hell scared of the riot.