| A whole canister of laughing gas to soothe me
|
| I sip a cocktail of toxic waste spillage and chill in an acid bath jacuzzi
|
| Popping pain killers by the dozen, hacking your limbs off
|
| A violent husband married to hip hop
|
| I Used To Love H.E.R but now I’d be a fool to trust her
|
| Your wife get’s screwed as your producers looping Usher
|
| For you to cypher too whilst your crew spoon each other
|
| Bunch of bitches, C-Walking in fluffy puppy slippers
|
| That sick depressed crack pot
|
| Retarded see a garbage heap as a picture-esque back drop
|
| Synthemesc for mind sharpening effects
|
| Fuck what the figure in the mirror says, I’m sane!
|
| The roof is on fire and I only have myself to blame
|
| All credits claimed by the good Doctor… Scott… Scalpel
|
| Show shape ups for all, fucking raw
|
| Son if your not in the game for respect
|
| Don’t say nothing within earshot
|
| Teeing off from the face of a record label exec
|
| I’m something else entirely
|
| The human throw-back in evolution
|
| Brushed myself off when I got kicked to the curb
|
| Sick and disturbed on an Emerge binge with your bird
|
| All inclusive… Hock Tu Down, the #1
|
| Drug Co. Chilling in clouds of skunk smoke
|
| Red eyed, we get high to get by x2
|
| Mr. Wrong, I smoke a spliff with an eighth in it
|
| Hit the bong then hit you across the face with it
|
| My smoke session has no ending BUT
|
| The plot-line is something like get high as fuck
|
| It’s not mine if you ain’t purple eyed and faint
|
| Debating with yourself, don’t sleep
|
| Stay awake and bake away your health
|
| Never did know about much
|
| My only outlook was discovered hitting the ground drunk
|
| Don’t spite the serial killing pro-lifer
|
| Off his head, the centre of attention on the edge
|
| What a guy, on the sly kill you for fun
|
| Don’t hold heat, hold a cold Innus & Gunn
|
| His ho’s won’t speak, unconventional with no gold teeth
|
| In his crooked grid, the man and just a kid!
|
| Stats; |
| six foot, skinny fuck, male, pale face
|
| Frail, grimacing from the stale ale taste
|
| I move through the club and guzzle Export
|
| With an awkward acid induced Hunter S walk
|
| Warped like William Cooper
|
| Still I’m slick like Rick The Ruler
|
| With your chick in the Heimlich Maneuver
|
| A giver but considered inconsiderate
|
| With bazooka sized spliff’s of buddah in his grip
|
| Drunk off something, doesn’t remember if he gives a shit
|
| Wouldn’t trust him, hmmm
|
| Half a Limp Bizkit and a few marbles short of a retarded kid’s picnic
|
| Drug. |
| Co chilling in clouds of skunk smoke
|
| Red eyed we get high to get by x 3
|
| Drug. |
| Co chilling in clouds of skunk
|
| Red eyed we get high and cut throats |