Sir Real says
There’s no place
Like home
Confinement

Miss Fortune says
I make a better trapdoor
Than a windowsill

I’m depressed
I’m an atheist
I think I’m God
I don’t believe in myself

Sir Real hits me
Where the landlord
Split me

Miss Fortune rubs me
The wrong way

I spill my guts
I spill my seed
I cry over sour
Grapes of wrath

When Sir Real slams
A trapdoor
Miss Fortune shatters
A windowsill

All I want is relief
From the burden
Of being me

All I want is relief
From the burden
Of seeking relief
From the burden
Of being me

All I want is relief
From the burden
Of being free
To choose my own
Confinements