Death is a carbon copy of you falling out your mama's womb*
Streets aren't dry and the sun wont shine on a high high high afternoon.
Alive at one hundred and two what a hell of a life.
Al H at a hundred and two, what a hell of a life
I won't do nothing to make ol' mama cry
I won't do nothing to make ol' karma cry
You get who you are
You forget where you are