| Murder, Murder, Murder
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| Murder, Murder, Murder
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| I strike when the iron’s hot
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| And form an unemployment line for my bullets when I fire shots
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| That’s the boss word (uh!) in the tree with my Mossberg
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| Kevlar vest, camouflage suit made of moss and birds (aah!)
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| You at a loss for words jerk look dumb as hell (stupid!)
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| It’s mathematics talk (and what?) and numbers tell
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| So save your ticket-stub (why?) cause I will click the snub
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| Strap you in a fuckin' crash test dummy collision truck
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| Grand Daddy Grenade Man spit, on some caveman shit
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| My ape hand hit, your nose and left your Ray-Bans split (hahaha)
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| My .38 I stay with (yup), but that’s just the backup plan
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| In case the motherfuckin' Mac-11 jam (brrrrraaa)
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| Matter of fact, I’m causin' cataracts with just one glance
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| Take one stance, my trigger finger do the Humpty Hump dance
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| (uhh!) Y’all ain’t puttin' heat down (nah), y’all put the seat down
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| Sit down and take a piss, flagrant trick; |
| you’s a blatant bitch!
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| Murder, Murder, Murder
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| Paragraphs of Murder
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| Murder, Murder, Murder
|
| Paragraphs of Murder
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| Murder, Murder, Murder
|
| Paragraphs of Murder
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| Murder, Murder, Murder
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| Paragraphs of Murder
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| I ain’t scared of Rosemary’s baby or Damien the Omen
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| I done been to Hell, it’s lame; |
| I slit Satan’s throat open (grr)
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| And sat on the throne for a while, it was too hot though
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| Still used the cold steel to blast the sauce out your taco (bang!)
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| Take nine off a thousand grams, watch me work it back in
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| Fuck a Louis bag, I keep my stacks in a trash bin (uhh!)
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| Ready for action, shoot chunks off your cheek (yeah!)
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| Fix your physique, it’s my weight loss technique (aah!)
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| Geek you called the cops on me, but they can’t phase a thug
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| They playin' with Raiden (what!), send the shock back through the taser plug
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| Power of Magneto, lift the Glocks out of their holsters
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| Squeeze the triggers and rock La Familia like Jehovah
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| Twelve gauge, if I pop it I’m dead wrong (uh-huh)
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| Leave the back of your head like Sonic the Hedgehog (damn!)
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| Boy I put gats to sternums and blast the burner (bwao!)
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| The motherfuckin' sarin gas server, It’s Paragraphs of Murder
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| Murder, Murder, Murder
|
| Paragraphs of Murder
|
| Murder, Murder, Murder
|
| Paragraphs of Murder
|
| Murder, Murder, Murder
|
| Paragraphs of Murder
|
| Murder, Murder, Murder
|
| Paragraphs of Murder
|
| Murder, Murder, Murder
|
| Paragraphs of Murder
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| Murder, Murder, Murder… |