[Verse 1: Vinnie Paz]
Tuck the cannon in the low fabric
Slick Rick grills, 24 gold karats
The Kimber K6s is so savage
It blew his brains all over the ghost mattress
The Cartier vintage like ghost rabbits
Man sent to Dennis Wilson crib, so lavish
We went up in his face with a stone hatchet
Southpaw, fight with the Left like old fascists
Throw shots from close angles
Have his body laid out like a snow angel
Apply pressure till they both strangled
Arms dealer sell biscuits like Bojangles
Empty clips, give 'em my all
Small fry, I got choppers that are bigger than y'all
No small talk, money, just the jux and be gone
I got shooters waitin' for you if you look at me wrong
Muerte!
[Sample]
12 gauges were perfect for these kind of jobs, 'cause they were intimidating, they were big. You know, rather than just a handgun. We'd kick down these doors and, put the gun to their head and I'm just like, "Look, if you don't give me my money, then I'm gonna hurt you." A lot of times I didn't even need the money. I did it because, it just gave me this fucking euphoric feeling and I was addicted...
[Verse 2: ILL BILL]
Satan Laughs as You Eternally Rot
Young Baloff with the burgundy snot
You get surgically shot
Drive-by you in a cloud of that purpley pot
Can you see with your Eyes Wide Shut, certainly not
And we all gon' die someday, Slowly We Rot
Shooters might go get your funeral shot, ahk
So choose wise who you keep within the circle of trust
Tucked the schwammy in the gut
Tommy, hand me the blunt
Speed forth like Z. York in the green orb
Swing swords, careen towards enemy hordes
Tear the face off my enemy's corpse
Mob through heavenly armed
The cause with these heavy metal songs and bars
Standing on a cliff harnessing the source of the Ark
Past the banana clip, architects tortured in war
Eye-patches on crisis actors
Unrecognizable accents on ISIS captains
Practice survival tactics
Tuck the cannon in the low fabric
Slick Rick grills, 24 gold karats
The Kimber K6s is so savage
It blew his brains all over the ghost mattress
The Cartier vintage like ghost rabbits
Man sent to Dennis Wilson crib, so lavish
We went up in his face with a stone hatchet
Southpaw, fight with the Left like old fascists
Throw shots from close angles
Have his body laid out like a snow angel
Apply pressure till they both strangled
Arms dealer sell biscuits like Bojangles
Empty clips, give 'em my all
Small fry, I got choppers that are bigger than y'all
No small talk, money, just the jux and be gone
I got shooters waitin' for you if you look at me wrong
Muerte!
[Sample]
12 gauges were perfect for these kind of jobs, 'cause they were intimidating, they were big. You know, rather than just a handgun. We'd kick down these doors and, put the gun to their head and I'm just like, "Look, if you don't give me my money, then I'm gonna hurt you." A lot of times I didn't even need the money. I did it because, it just gave me this fucking euphoric feeling and I was addicted...
[Verse 2: ILL BILL]
Satan Laughs as You Eternally Rot
Young Baloff with the burgundy snot
You get surgically shot
Drive-by you in a cloud of that purpley pot
Can you see with your Eyes Wide Shut, certainly not
And we all gon' die someday, Slowly We Rot
Shooters might go get your funeral shot, ahk
So choose wise who you keep within the circle of trust
Tucked the schwammy in the gut
Tommy, hand me the blunt
Speed forth like Z. York in the green orb
Swing swords, careen towards enemy hordes
Tear the face off my enemy's corpse
Mob through heavenly armed
The cause with these heavy metal songs and bars
Standing on a cliff harnessing the source of the Ark
Past the banana clip, architects tortured in war
Eye-patches on crisis actors
Unrecognizable accents on ISIS captains
Practice survival tactics
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