Kill My Dog - Cam'Ron, Tom Gist

See they kilt him on a Sunday

We was supposed to do a song that Monday

Had dreams of getting on, one day, somehow, someway

We would jump at the chance, like a good pump fake

Said we wouldn’t change and stay hungry

But if I keep it funky

Even Pac had to do the Humpty

Sometimes bummy with a stack on him

Sometimes fresh with cracks on him, figure him out

He never shouted when he rhymed (nah)

Respected words, could move mountains with his mind (word up)

His best was first

We in the hood, and I’m stressing (I'm buggin)

He said they kill Martin Luther King, but not his message

The jewels he dropped

He never bragged about the tools he copped (never)

But he had 'em

One rule, shit, if they try to rob me, get at 'em

And that’s the way he fell up in Harlem

He stuck to his words, they had to kill him just so they could rob him

Asking why?

The nigga had to die?

It don’t make sense

(Shit is crazy, man. The nigga just ain’t give up the fucking jewelry, man.

Damn.)

Z died in '97

March 2nd, before 9/11 (World Trade ???)

He won’t see my Porsche 911 or the crystal in my place

He dead, they said, get him a page on MySpace (get out my face with that)

I turned my back and think

I embedded the wreath???

(me)

The casket drop, huh, I was dead on my feet (like a pallbearer)

Yeah he resting in peace (what?)

But because of him (what?)

It’s plaques on my wall, ya’ll, instead of my teeth.

(thank God)

Madison Ave, got the leathers from North Beach (the hobo joint)

Beamer in Philly, got broads from Broad Street

He had the Honda Accord, made it more sweet (what up skeet)

We balled every summer like West 4th Street (not the tournament)

Now your face on the wall, next to liquor you figure

They could read what you wrote

Scripture is next to your picture (got your lyrics next to it)

Might shed a tear but real men are here (believe that)

It’s hard to believe, my nigga, it’s been 10 years, yeah

His kids won’t know him

Who they father was?

I’m a show 'em

The world rotating in slow motion

Lights are dim

Hands crossed in his casket, no life within

Some people they are phony

I might be wrong, but it’s easier to struggle with your homie

I write this song with a swift pen

And just then, the shit kicked in

Like, I’ll never see my nigga again (never)

I can’t meet him outside (nah)

Dead, we can’t play live

Bum joystick, he can’t take mine

Called him a rebel with a cause (cause)

Shit was strange, but there’s things you can gain in loss

That was my dog (dog)

To the deathbed, I’m missing you bro (I miss you bro)

Ya, still chasing dreams, still sick with the flow

I gotta breeze, but I’m a see you in a minute (one minute)

I’m just hoping, that heaven got a studio in it