| My ratchet exhales lead, cleaving, my hatchet’s leaving a trail of red | 
| Catching cerebrum from a detached female head | 
| Apache walking through the cornfield, I was born real | 
| Wielding a morning star, You’re left torn and peeled on the floor, kneeled | 
| Cold aggressor, buck the 3 pound off at you like Roth in Little Odessa | 
| Guillotine your crown off with a clothes dresser | 
| The Hades gatekeeper, Hatebreeder, breaking your face | 
| I’m blatantly crazier, straigh razor your trachea | 
| Pulp plops on your shirt, bloody red polka dots | 
| The unfed vulture plots murder, dead your folks while you watch | 
| Assasinated with acid, fascinated with drilling | 
| Lacerated you bastard, masturbated to killing | 
| Your fucking life X’d out, flexin' axe like Dexter | 
| Slash you with Plexiglas, black bury you like a texter | 
| Fuck what you’re selling, you’ll get bucked in your melon | 
| Metall pellets stuck in your cerebellum, once you’re abducted like Helen! | 
| Cut your head off, bust the lead off, now get off | 
| The dick money, you don’t know me, keep it moving homie | 
| The Godfathers' henchmen are drenched in your blood, did I mention? | 
| When G and Nec in the room, it’s High Tension! | 
| Killer team, guillotines and gallows | 
| 40 caliber, loaded with Calicos, on barrel and mallet mode | 
| Calluses of malice grow, Molotov bottle your ballad flow | 
| Death on a pale horse, the gallop slow | 
| Blade of my Excalibur glow like William Wallace | 
| Send your body off to med school for brilliant scholars | 
| We bout to stab 'em with 7 daggers like Damien | 
| Triple sixes when 3 biscuits empty out in your cranium | 
| Dark clouds and rainy wind, we aiming these 10's | 
| On dames and they men, leave 'em with flaming skin on they dainty limbs | 
| Front line gunners, we dump 9's in the fronters | 
| Son of Sam handguns, the grunt mind of a hunter | 
| Son, we Leatherface butchers in bloody aprons, blood he craving | 
| Muddy beige Timbs, put a rusty blade in that slut he chasing | 
| Tool shed tools, embedded inside her dude’s head | 
| No Vital Signs, this be the title up in the news spread |