They don't celebrate much round here, unc,
But life.
Keep funeral devices packed like nightclubs,
Dressed to the nines,
This the ninth one this month.
Tried to drink myself numb,
Yet I still feel the open air you stood in.
Now you lie there.
You don't look like Busta--
Too shiny,
Not like you could teach a boy to shake hands,
Grip tight and stiff,
Like the weight of you in this damn box.
Too shiny.
You been processed,
Refurbished,
And offered to us.
My suit is too tight.
The air too thick.
Your name is heavy in the preacher's mouth.
I'm still searching for myself
In the loudness of your memory