| It’s futile for you to do battle with a mutant who chews gravel
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| And spews jagged matter back at dudes asking to grapple
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| I’m used to abusive battering, and by «used to abusive battering»
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| I actually mean, my boot’s used to moving through asses, when
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| You, bastards attempt to pen raps attackin a cat of my stature
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| And it’s sad to hafta blast a backpacker so bad that
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| They hafta attach flaps of skin grafting and plastic limbs
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| After our match, when I win, just to patch him back again
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| What matters is, I’ve mastered every path of my craft so accurate
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| Every track I spit, rapidly adds to the status I have as «sick»
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| Which would be the shit, except when I rap a verse, nervous kids
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| Are grabbing a gas mask, and missing the first half of my shit
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| I flatten average men with a pad and pen, I’ll fashion a diss
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| So immaculate I hafta rap it with a cackle and grin
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| I’m past the status of Devils Advocate, attracted to sin
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| The baddest, you can’t even begin imagine the madness within
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| This is your warning, I’m a force to be reckoned with |
| My tongue’s a torch that scorches when the record spins
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| Fuck authority, I’d torture the president
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| It’s surely evident I’m as morbid as war veterans
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| I spit that horror-core shit and deliver rhetoric, so sadistic
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| Christians switch directions, when I’m headed in the direction
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| They’re headed in, and I’m better than any competitor
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| Ready to sever the head of a meddler, deadly as ever, the shit is inevitable
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| I sip liquor, get pissed, disfigure a chick’s pretty face with
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| A quick flip of my wrist, scraping razors hit, breakin the skin
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| And then, I’m lickin the places I slit, to taste what I did
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| I’m basically sayin, «mentally insane» is too tame for what I’ve been
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| Since the eighty’s and I’m saying I’m WAY crazier since then
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| I stay in a state of in-tense, meditative hate and stay bent
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| From medication meant to replace sedation with concentration and
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| Make you creative and unafraid to display it in the same sense
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| So I’m taping my prey’s faces and takin em to a basement in
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| A vacant wasteland to participate in strange operations |
| Like making em trade veins with an AIDS patient and then I’m unchaining em
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| And lettin em escape so I can chase em and video tape the mayhem
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| I’m playin with prayin victims laying naked, restricted with thick
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| Fitted restraints, I’m lifting, painfully bending tense ligament
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| Tissue, which extends when I inch the six sensitive suspension
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| Instruments in sixty demented and sequentially different increments
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| I’m disenchanted with music industry management so I’m plannin
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| To ram a van fulla flammable cans through every damn window I can
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| And park in the lobby of every labels office and demand coffee
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| From every A& R, I cross, cuz that’s what their fuckin job should be
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| And if they don’t comply with it, I’m flippin my lit cigarette skyward
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| And we can all fry in a pile, cuz I’m flying higher than Richard Pryor
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| And I’m dying to see if your cheap attire can defy the heat from my lighter
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| When I try to light a piece of it on fire, you ready die, sir?
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| Whoever’s in charge of these super-stars, gets a boot to the dome |
| For signing rhymers who couldn’t find a useful line on the road
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| It’s time for new talent to rise and re-define how to flow
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| And challenge those in power, so now it’s time go for the throat
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| And then it’s game over for the same jokers, in the range rovers
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| Focus, your reigns over, dope chains is taken and broken
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| Ya bones poking, ya brains smokin, it’s so hopeless, I’m waiting to open
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| Your show, so I go can loco and spray ya clothes with a flame thrower |