| You son of a bitch.
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| Grimey fuck.
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| I hate you from the bottom of my heart
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| Smart talkin' bitch, rap-pseudo intellectual chit chat
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| You don’t have to? |
| wear a thought or peer at all?
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| When I heave a big axe at the back of your neck and head
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| And tear it off, soft, silly putty bullshit
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| I live to strip the flesh from off your bones, holmes
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| Homegrown slasher flick, spill the blood of pacifists
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| Kill your cousin and your kids, violent, nihilist
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| Stab your weak ass DJ wit' a stylus, right up in his eyelids
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| Never, never, ever sever ties
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| Unless it’s severing the spine from the nerve-endings of a clever guy
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| Runnin' from a cop car, clothes soaked in the blood of pop stars
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| Murdering is not hard! |
| It’s only hard not to murder!
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| Cause women just look sexier, when they’re chopped to burger.
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| Sliced down to size 'til it resembles anorexia
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| What chick wouldn’t want a naked killer standin' next to her?
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| I guess it’s just, guess it’s just, probably it’s, obvious
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| My hobby is, slayings of the sloppiest degree!
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| I’m an ominous disease or a gift from God
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| Eating people is a job, dining on a human shish kebab
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| With a slob’s mannerisms, I’m still wearin' lunch
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| From yesterday on my shirt, at my Sunday mornin' brunch
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| Old folks havin' aneurysms, when I hunt
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| On the news, women found with blunt
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| Objects jammed up in their cunt
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| We interrupt this broadcast for a special newsflash
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| Today I stuck a shotgun up this broad’s ass (blam!)
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| Back to you Tom, bad news, reporting live
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| Following a serpentine blood trail at the murder scene
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| Back to your regular program
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| Of bludgeonin' yuppies with their cellular phone then
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| Carvin' a grown man, down to the shape of a child
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| Now find the outline and save it a while
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| I got a sentiment for dismemberment
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| And enjoy scrawling letters in blood with poor penmanship
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| I’m like dismember, disembowel, disavow
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| Show up at the precinct, and ask is this allowed
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| With a gouge in my forehead
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| Shaped like a crescent moon and star
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| And a shirt that says «I kill for Allahu Akbar»
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| So I’m only doin' God’s work
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| Waitin' for some unaware, under aged chicks outside a concert
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| The monster, who strikes like clockwork
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| Guerrilla, serial killer, fuckin' stiff chicks until my cock hurts
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| I’m a terrorist, heavenless, specialist, pessimist
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| Ever since my dog started sendin' mixed messages
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| Chicks with big breastsesses, started turnin' up dead
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| Found on an altar with altered measurements
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| Effortless precision, sharp knife management
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| Executed by the champion of killin' transients |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Visceral Literal, artist - Louis Logic. Album song Debacle in a Bottle, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп