| You couldn’t possibly be fucking ready for me
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| I generated the phosphate to fuse with my old school hate
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| Synced to the beat decomposed fucking smelly feet
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| The shit’s far from ill it sucks dick pickle dills
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| Standing here at your grave with the likes of Pat Magill
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| Spittin' on the head stone I bet you fuckin' died alone
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| And now a multitude snacks your fucking bones
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| Failed to achieve the excellence that you’d once shown
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| You think to yourself deep in the ground
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| Are they laughing at me, what the fuck is that sound?
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| Ready for an inoculation?
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| The year is 1954, and I’m at the door
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| With my thumbs balls-deep in a Croatian whore
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| Knife fighting at the ice cream social, fucking hardcore
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| You stand stunned at my sight, my beats are fuckin' tight
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| Try to hold a candle to me but the flames are in my pee
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| Suck my piss bitches, or else leave with a mouth of stitches
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| Your arms are now replaced with some fucking titses
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| The way we operate, motherfucking inoculate
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| You got a cherry red Stratocaster, you’re fuckin' great
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| Now shut the fuck up while I blast beats on your fucking face
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| Your last moment on earth, realize you’re eternally replaced
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| Bitch |