Yeah. The little angel with the pentagram on her pink dress said it's okay
Yo
I'll pull down the attic by the stairs
Of everybody so deep they won't find the hairs
I don't care, something foul lives in my gut alive in there
Priests exorcise me scared
When I spit they put me before a panel of twelve psychics tied in chairs
I murder Christian twins died in pairs
Dismiss windpipes of air
Strangled them under water paralyzing their eyes to stare
I promise you, I'll go Charles Brown on a prostitute
Motels turn melting meat locker fumes
Nylons knotting noose around her throat popped her roof
3 Quarter House got the boot
Forgotten two
Cops looking in the swamps for shoes
Devil locks and doctor tools
I'll swap with you, red tops and blues, gel caps, blots and cubes
Huffing air plane model glue
My kitchen got more d** than Bonnaroo
Spit til my lung's saggy like condoms used
My pocket white chunks and powder like crushed up Aspirin
Fans run up asking if I want a ton of acid
Groupies getting f**ed up a**es
Her face s**ed up plastic
Underground I'll flood up caskets
No need to define what a f**ed up past is
f** my psyche record, I'll crunch up transcript
Give me two minute verses to f** up tracks with
Each song is like being stabbed 168 times in a Russian pa**ion