It was the summer of ninety-five (so what?!),   In the backyard, shaving the old plies.   Feeling so strong, something went wrong.   Straight into my finger, what a stinger, it was so long.   I still remember that day, like the day   that I said that I swear, "I'll never hurt myself again",   But it seems that I'm deemed to be wrong, to be wrong, to be wrong.   So i've got to keep holding on   They always played a slow song.      When they come for me, I'll be sitting at my desk,   With a gun in my hand, wearing a bulletproof vest.   Singing "my, my, my, how the time does fly,   When you know you're going to die   by the end of the night."      I still remember when we were young and fragile then.   No one gave a shit about us because times were tougher then.   Feeling so good,   cruising the hood;   straight into the real world, rich kids never understood.   But I don't care. I can fade away to anywhere.   Don't stop because you might get dropped   and if you do who's going to pick you up.   Well I won't... they always played a slow song.