| Hunnid spokes on the fucking hearse
|
| Bitch I’m cursed
|
| Riding around with a can full of gas and a match and a mask
|
| Then we stop at the Church
|
| Lighting the front of the blunt now I’m burnt
|
| Got that work in my trunk
|
| Yeah, that’s that bump that you heard
|
| That pussy boy purred when I popped him in the head
|
| Got blood on my shirt
|
| Yung Plague is the worst
|
| Pulling up on a curb
|
| And then snatch me a purse
|
| And the bitch carrying it
|
| When she ever gonna learn?
|
| Bitch I’m trying to swerve
|
| Something like I got no limbs
|
| Flowing with the dirt
|
| Middle finger up
|
| Fuck the herd
|
| Shut the fuck up, bitch
|
| Let me blow down on this Indo
|
| It’s that scarecrow riding solo
|
| Blood dripping down my polo
|
| It’s that dynamite tossing
|
| Sleep up in a coffin
|
| Jeffrey Dahmer with Alzheimer’s
|
| Zombies marching right behind us
|
| Creeping, creeping with the hatchet
|
| All my hoes is ratchet
|
| Smoking blunts but ain’t no passing
|
| Smoking bowls but ain’t no packing
|
| Middle finger macking, dead bodies keep on stacking
|
| Hickory, Dickory, Dock
|
| Pulling out my Glock
|
| Pull the triggers, bodies drop
|
| Like «pop, pop, pop, pop!» |