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letra de one for the butcher knife – necro

(feat. goretex and ill bill)

one for the butcher knife, two for the glock!
(you can’t kill me, cause i’m already dead)

peep my little friend his name is m one six
i got the butcher, knife, to cut your f-ckin’ heart out for kicks
i’m on a killing spree, like a n-gg- named manson
write a rhyme on your grave kid, it’s where i’ll be dancin’
the cha cha, you try to flex and i shot ya
ten to the head, and now you’re motherf-ckin’ brain dead
mad moonies need mad clips
i got more rubber in my glock than artificial hips
so now you’re dead kid
cause you f-ckin bled kid
every time i shot you in your motherf-ckin’ head kid
when you call my suicidal hotline
i’ll tell you to blow your f-ckin’ brains out with a tek-9
blowin off your lips is somethin i promote
so light up an m-80 and shove it down your f-ckin’ throat
the rougher, the more you suffer, i’m the messiah
my rhymes are thicker, than the afro on richard pryer
so f-ck, f-ck f-ck f-ck
if you step to the corpse than your goin’ to catch a buck
you stupid f-ck
check out the way to beat grooves
they call me h-rny, cause i f-ck anything that moves
my f-cked up rhymes are sure to offend ya
so i’ll drive over your body like the n-gg-z from toxic avenger
rip out your brain through your nose
and when a girl comes over i got a whole selection of d-ld-s
so die motherf-cker die
and don’t ask me why punks get bruised up like soleil moonfry
i rock a house party like molile
and i f-cked a dead corpse to techno, cause i’m a necrophile
so if you’re warm ca-ca, get with this
if not i’ll bust out my d-ck, and p-ss in your esophagus
i drank a blood donor’s deposit
now moony’s out like a f-gget that just came out of the f-ckin’ closet

one for the butcher knife, two for the glock!
(you can’t kill me, cause i’m already dead)

check one, two, i got clout like a mortician
i got more fresh body parts than dama’s kitchen
a lime to a lemon, a lemon to a lime
i rock a dead n-gg- skin every time i drop my rhyme
the storm troopers in death gear, that’s how it flows
no one knows, i want your money and your clothes
i stink like s-x, i rob b-tches welfare checks
and i rob more cribs than malcolm x
yes it’s the butcher with more d-ck than clark
i love to bash b-tches on the head in central park
position, sicko, infamous junkie
a tek-9 connected to my spine shows i’m funky
the fridge is filled with fresh killed body parts
the n-gg-z who dissed me, the b-tches who broke my heart
now i’m mista murder
the d-ld- inserter
baptized in blood i’m the celebate converter
ain’t misbehaven
sick like wes craven
i’ll open your mom’s legs, v-g-n-‘s unshaven
bitin’ the heads off gocks like ozzy osborne
dead celebrities, with the children of the corn
the butcher block glock rock scream until you die
goretex put me in the chair till i fry

one for the butcher knife, two for the glock!
(you can’t kill me, cause i’m already dead)

[ill bill]
the official distorted body parts chop-a-chops your body
piece by mothaf-ckin’ piece
then i study the anatomical breakdown of the human physique
the blood suckin freaks speaks then you drop the sea
need i say more? maybe i do these days
i be grabbin up my glock whenever me and my crew
step into a n-gg- pullin’ the trigger in this area
territories all occupied by hysteria
and it gets scarier by the minute
cause i got n-gg-z screamin’ just like a b-tch at the abortion clinic
d-mned if i do, d-mned if i don’t
i’ll f-ck a pregnant b-tch up her -ss after i slit her throat
and throw her body off of the roof top
chop chop, then drop pieces, dead celebrities releases
the mostess grossest, sicker than multiple cirrhoses
mumbo jumbo, even your brain’s hopeless
cause there’s no hope when the camouflage is comin’ at ya to get ya
food faced mask and two boots, the fracture
your f-cking face takes my size twelve
mr. ill bill is coming straight from h-ll
to f-ck up a felon no turning back, my gat crack
with hollow tips my tek rips then flips my stack, a f-ckin rap
after the blood spoke i smoke another
after i step up your pops i f-ck your mother
yeah, i’ll hit the f-ckin’ p-ss with my p-n-s
more fractured a chump drop adidas when my meat hits
between, b-tt cheeks, t-tties, and c-ck lips
my c-ck sticks gross
after my j-zm jumps that’s all she wrote
cause i’m f-ckin detected from the p-ss to my r-ct-m
eye sockets to ear drums a deviated septum
pull out the glock shoot the b-tch with my glock
collect my props, then bill’s out like acid rock

one for the butcher knife, two for the glock!
(you can’t kill me, cause i’m already dead

- letras de necro