i m dressed to kill with the glock and 38 on my waist line and murkin you to me will translate to a great time the guns that i hold demand the money or motive if i don t get it then you better bet the gun ll explode they re loaded aiming for your face son and tearing shit up forget blastin your gut make sure your casket is shut the black sheep of the bunch turning the weak into lunch yo i m hungry for your flesh like i ain t eaten in months i ll dig in with my ox and let it drag on your tan line put heads in the box and stab the handle with care signs i ll be in disguise ready to stick you with knives and leave your arms crossed like forrest whitaker s eyes you sure you ready to die by this machete of mine it takes just one stride for your head to divide fuckin bludgeoned all night during my games of death the cops ll struggle to find where your remains are left they re underneath the weeds rotting in the gentle breeze chillin with the flies beetles and the centipedes a distant memory your existence is gone you re on your way to the gates where you ll be visiting god i m on the prowl huntin for your head or your chest leavin you dead like the rest i got a fetish for death i m on the prowl son so you can run and evade it s all the same in the end you got a date with my blade it be the children of corn style the killa with sword i ll unleash a plague of bees about a billion a sworn pile the desolate drugs supply the strength for my hunt but when i catch you you re strung up hung by flesh of their tongues son revenge is the script you ll be eventually ripped tossed in pendulum pits until you stench of the crypt you ll be hunted for days by thugs with guns and grenades fuckin punchin your face until you re sunk in the grave blades are stuck in your brains laced and stuck in the lake you should ve ducked when i sprayed son you re a fuckin disgrace dirty lesions on your grill pus excretions will be spilled gore adhesives will be filled with blood you leaked before you re killed my sinister inside drugged with hundreds of pills it s two minutes to midnight better run to the hills i m leavin you deceased burning bullets get released earth is sure to hear you screech like guitars of judas priest next step you re check mated your vest is invaded by hollow tip shells your chest is separated you re caught up in a mess of tortured long death on the deck more or less a corpse with torn flesh 2