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letra de weapon killah (too cold windy blow remix) - thoughtz of da chamber

[verse 1: tomb]
sucking blood from infant’s wound
“laugh-in” maltese bippy goons
spilling blood-for-ink, cartoonists swooned
in freemasonic code of number conversion
7/1 = 71 = 63, in numerology 666 the beast
“the profit has been avenged”
the star-planet moving to the east
“isis still expanding in spite of us victories”
freedom of speech
means freedom to peach
fo’ minister of info’
faux minister of infaux
not mohammed, naw
e. rayman playin’ allah
at mohammad magazine
ed., dieudonné m’bala m’bala
jean-marie le pen his child’s godfather
reglement de comte de bouderbala

[verse 2: stalker]
yes, yes, puck-arielle, let these pages be the modest stage i’ve set
a snapping, dancing firestorm balletic in its burnt ham wit
served to inane dunces slit by the sphinx’s dagger solar ambit
they say in tanzania chimpanzees have firedancers
better than our straitjacket flits. poor lord peter apnea
thought himself a spider, left without a web –
let fly, – and in his fall a nation’s necromantic fancy
blossoming black wisp readings of wills left intestate
with us to suck the squirt of hecate’s next pressed breast leak
harried by autumnal colors, lightning lapels bespoke fraternity
yet touched us to the quick at chappaquidd-ck
that season i lost someone to a double game of quidditch
while henley ‘scaped us through starry windows with fair eternity
abiding now in the gossamer of winehouse algol mugwump
shall we as a nation hew it, this jamestown starve’s dream of london
with binge-purge diane and too-poignant ferguson
in sloane square encomp-ssed by a bafomet’s cussing
as misery would have it in a bear’s paw fern or pelican’s ladle
the fish that flipped out like a tired dredl
or jeffrey who clawed his way to the top
to steal it from toddlers wearing bonnets
with no st. lou’ as ludique guide, no arch spencer-ian sonnet
no wainwright building’s bullet window to k!ll an eric
errant like that vile girl of metz “burnt at the stake,”
unhorsed by violent bowman, rein, spit and bl–dy bit

[verse 3: nitemare]
yes, cowslip-anthem, mercurial blood-bubble puck
twin of arielle of dumb-ssle, make thee hence and fly the coop
let stars rue your rooster flight to subtle cups
drunk as a deep dish from a shallow river’s death
and brought thereby to edgy heath, elizabeth’d
by tickling seymour and stand-offish parr
alice through elizabeth’s the mirror
or the sinful soul, (“kp” on embroidered cover
with kaphr for nations conquered perhaps meaning “kaffir”)
her gown nevertheless cut to tatters left in clover
like luckless seymour when his head did shatter
bl–dy scalp and ensign pulver’d

[hook]
“f-ck the police, f-ck, f-ck
f-ck the police, f-ck, f-ck”

- thoughtz of da chamber

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