Knowing you are going to die is a hard thing accepted at first.
Laying in a pool of your own fucking blood,
As the vultures circle over your fucking head.

With a bullet in your gut,
This is a slow and painful death.
Millions of things run through your mind.
Too many "what ifs?" to count.

As I lay in a pool of a blood,
I can't help but think, will I be remembered?
The answer is; probably not.
I try to make it to my feet to no prevail.
Everything is going black.

I think I have died only to wake up,
As if this is some sort of sick fucking joke.
This is not a dream, still bleeding.
Still filled with all of this pain.
TRYING TO MOVE TO MY FEET, I DO NOT PREVAIL.

I watch as the vultures circle over my head.
Life blurs as I try to make things out.
Yelling will do me no good,
So I lay and wait for fucking death.
I watch as the vultures circle over my head.
Yelling will do me no good,
So I lay and wait for death.

As I lay in a pool of blood,
I can't help but think, will I be remembered?
The answer is; probably not.
I try to make it to my feet; I do not prevail.
Life blurs as I try to make everything out.
Yelling will do me no fucking good,
So I lay and wait for death.

When I die, will I go anywhere?
Or am I doomed to sit and fucking rot?