As a young man, I got around.
I’d fock bitches of my own free will and all without a motha fockin care in the world.
Life was sweet.
But then everything changed.
One day, I decided to take a ride on a particularly scabby lookin’ horse and wished to God I’d saddled my black ass up beforehand, ya feel?
See, that bitch was carryin’ somethin’ nasty that I didn’t know about; somethin’ that can momentarily reduce a man to near nothin’.
In the days and weeks that followed, I’d never felt pain like it.
I couldn’t even take a leak without it burnin’ my motha fockin skin flute inside out.
Simply put – goin’ to the john was like pissin’ fockin flames, ya feel me?
You know somethin’, Burned Man, it’s for that reason Big Slim can sympathise with your sorry state of affairs.
Like you, I’ve experienced first-hand how the agonisin’ pain of gettin’ burnt reduces a man to near nothin’.
To ashes of his former fockin self.
Even now, I catch myself stood at the urinal thinkin’ about the pain of days gone by, dawg.
Tube steak in hand, I relive it over and over again in my head, wonderin’ to myself how the situation could have turned out better if I’d have just done things differently.
If I’d have just used a little more protection.
I look at you and I know you think about it too, homie. In those solitary moments when it’s just you all alone with your thoughts, you play out that fateful night repeatedly. You question whether the love you vowed as a husband and the protection you pledged as a father was true, and you manufacture scenarios in which you save your loved ones from the blaze.
In which you save yourself from the incessant and unrelenting pain of loss.
I guess the only difference between you and me is that my grief was only temporary, ya feel?
I was able to relieve the pain of my misfortunes, whereas yours? They’re quite the fockin opposite.
Nothin’ – no treatment, therapy or cure in the world – will reduce the agony you harbour in that bandaged up old fockin heart of yours.
Your miserable life is condemned to one of pain and suffering for all eternity.
You wear the scars to prove it, and those scars will never heal.
I feel for you, my burnt brother, really I do, but come Monday night, Clash of the Titans, you’re steppin’ straight out of the fryin’ pan into the motha fockin fire for real.
You might think fightin’ me will extinguish the pains of the past, but in truth, it’ll only inflict more punishment than your white ass can’t handle.
So I tell you what, dawg; I’ll give you this one for free.
Take a little advice from Drexl…
Put the past behind you. Learn from your motha fockin mistakes, homie, ‘cause if life has taught you one thing in your wretched existence it’s that it wouldn’t piss on you.
Not even if you were on fire.