Death Bed

INKED WILL

Intro - Labored breathing, heart monitor beeping in the background, weak but defiant voice

Beep... beep... beep...

They're all outside the room, you know...

Not to hold my hand... (weak chuckle)

...to hold their fuckin' pens, waitin' for the signature.

Nah...

Turn that machine up. I got one last verse before the flatline.

Let 'em hear this...

Verse 1 - Slow, deliberate start, building emotional weight and bitterness

The ceiling fan's spinnin' slow, shadow on the drywall

I can hear 'em in the hallway through the drywall, plottin' on a buyout, eyein' my withdrawals

Vultures in V-necks, checkin' for a pulse on a paycheck, flexin' fake respect

"My condolences,"—nah, your condominium hopes are showin' through your Pendleton coat

You leeches got your speech on repeat, waitin' for the priest so you can feast on the deceased's lease on a beach-front piece

I see the whole damn table, this ain't family, it's a fable

A stable full of Cain and Abels, twistin' cables 'round my cradle since the cradle

I'm not stable? I'm the one with the chart flatlinin', still rhymin', still climbin' the air ducts of despair

You're all downstairs comparin' silverware, slickin' back your hair, pretending you care

Well, here's your fuckin' share...

Verse 2 - The "will" is read out, venomous and specific, flow quickens with fury

Listen close, this the deathbed deposition, the final ammunition

To my son: get the intuition, not the tuition, you got the vision I was missin'

Burn the contracts, they're contact traps, don't sign nothin' but a masterpiece

And never trust a man who smiles with teeth but hasn't ever shown a fang of grief

To my daughter: get the water-front, not the water-downed love from your mother's second cousin's fraudulent husband, Greg, the slimy slug

You see his shrug? That's a shoulder full of smuggled mugs, rugs, and drugs he dug from under my legacy

He'd sell your memory for a centerpiece at a Denny's legacy, Gregory, you dead to me...

And to the rest of you snakes in the grass: kiss my flatlining ass!

You ain't gettin' the house, you ain't gettin' the cars, you ain't gettin' the stocks, you ain't gettin' the bars!

You get this catalogue, this epilogue, this monologue, this fog, this smog

You get the middle finger from a dying man, a final "fuck you" from a lion's den!

Bridge - The flow slows, voice cracks, the wisdom hits, talking directly to the kids now, pure Eminem "Mockingbird" energy

And if you're listenin', kids, through the hissin' of the serpents

I wasn't perfect, I was searchin' for a purpose through the bourbon and the Versace curtains

I was hurtin', I was cursin' at the version of myself I kept rehearsin'

Now the final curtain's closin', this is the version that's emergin', I'm certain

You don't measure a man by the land that he stands on, but by the stand that he lands on

When the land is abandoned, and the hands are all branded with the man's demand for a random expansion

Don't expand for the ransom, don't demand what you're handed, understand that a brand is a cancer in tandem

With the glamour and the camera, it's a hammer to the skull of your character, a grammar to annul your vernacular

Fuck the spectacle, protect your soul's receptacle

Love's the only equity worth wrestlin' when the rest is just a Western Union wrestlin' session with depression

That's the lesson. No exceptions. One last confession...

(Heart monitor flatlines—a long, single tone.)

(Final beat drops out. Silence. Then, one last line, like a ghost in the machine, full Marshall snarl)

...And Greg, if you touch my fucking record collection, I'm hauntin' your bathroom mirror 'til you piss yourself to death.

(Click. Silence.)