A Prayer for Lil Wayne

Hey there, Lil Wayne. Heard you got sick. Well, if you're reading this, and I can't imagine why you wouldn't be, I just wanted to let you know I feel really bad about what happened. In a way I feel I'm partially to blame. In fact, you might even say I'm completely to blame. Look, Lil Wayne, I have a confession to make: I put blizzeach in your syzzurup. My bad. I also put roach powder in your weed and heroin in your toothpaste.

I'm trying to kill you, Lil Wayne. There, I said it. I've been trying to kill you since January. In fact, the only reason I haven't been trying to kill you for the past five years or so is because I kept getting you confused with Flavor-Flav, and Public Enemy was my shit back in the day.

But I guess 911 isn't the joke it used to be back then, because somebody managed to drag you to the hospital before you dropped dead. Now I know you're probably wondering why I want you to die. It's nothing personal, honest. It's just that you're in my 2013 dead pool. Some people buy lottery tickets, others play the slot machines or online poker, but I like to gamble on dead pools. It's a lot like Fantasy Football, but with corpses.

For every person I accurately predict to die before the year 2014, I win five hundred bottle caps. I don't think I need to tell you how much hobo pussy you can buy with that kind of scratch. You know what I'm talking about. After all, we're both men of the world, am I right? Of course I'm right. So now you understand why I have to kill you.

Oh and by the way, I wrote you a song. Maybe you can play it at your next concert.

If you see me in the club, stab me til I die
If you see me on the stage, let them bullets fly
If you see me in the streets, run me over, dog
If you see me in the woods, hit me with a log

If you see me in the club, stab me til I die
If you see me on the stage, let them bullets fly
If you see me in the streets, run me over, dog
If you see me in the woods, hit me with a log