Testi Becoming the Absolute - Army of the Pharaohs, Vinnie Paz, Apathy

Becoming the Absolute

1: Crypt the Warchild]\nNo more olive branches, no peace offerings\nPut him in the killing fields, let the beasts slaughter him\nCold day in Hell, still let the heat torture him\nEven if I’m isolated I can still reach all of 'em\nClown-ass niggas all running in the circus\nTryna cut my throat, tryna shorten up my circuit\nGod is my witness, but the universe is churchless\nNo room for forgiveness written in these Bible verses\nNever move timid even though the reaper’s lurking\nWill always be a Pharaoh until it’s time to close the curtain\nThis don’t fall on deaf ears, don’t act like you ain’t heard it\nJealousy’s a bitch and we all know your feelings hurting\nSpace Odyssey, quantum leaping over serpents\nAin’t nothing hot as me, ho ass niggas know the verdict\nProceed to kill everything don’t know if there’s a purpose\nJust here to play my part, nothing given I just earned it\nAnd I burned it\nSeveral layers deep in my epidermis\nDirtiest motherfuckers to walk on this earth’s surface\nSearching like heat-seeking missiles submerging and hurdling\nTowards the enemy sub-*gurgling sounds*, the sharks are circling\nBloodcurdling, gurgling, murdering, I’m emerging\nFrom the murkiest depths with mermaid skeletons, stretch\nBackwards around the planet from the east to the west\nThere’s nothing left, but the bubbles from your dead man’s breath\nIt hasn’t reached the surface yet, but as soon as it does\nThere will be absolutely no mistake about who it was\nThe Pharaoh clique, the click, the clack\nSound effect to cock it back\nWe locking rap up in the treasure chest to drop it in black, abyss\nPolice frisk\nBecause I left deceased chicks\nInside of a deep ditch\nIn pieces like deep dish\nMy telephone prefix\nIs always with three sixes\nI’m always with three bitches\nThe people say he’s vicious\nI got the urge to dismantle\nBlow out a wack rapper’s candle\nThis is a panel of Pharaohs\nCannibal hungry animals\nI came with a flame to brand you\nBurn you like metal handles\nThat we sharpen for the sword\nThat’ll stab through your Adam’s apple\nYou’re lame thinking you’re hotter\nOut of your fucking league\nAnd I aim at your oblongata\nLike you ain’t part of my team\nYou afraid of my whole armada\nPapa taught me to squeeze\n'Till the heat from the barrel’s bottom unleashes another beam\nI’m the monster\nZilla, nine millimeter, and heater\nAnother beat I can beat up\nSit back and just kick my feet up\nSteady fighting for freedom\nAnd you ain’t rattling me up\nI hustle till the death and right now I’m leading the re-up\nAnother sucker to beat up, that’s why I’m writing your will\nAdam Keefe Horovitz, I am Licensed To Ill\nI started liking to kill\nAnd the dark of life and the thrill\nThe horror life real\nAnd its hard to fight the appeal\nThe Goose go lovely with lots of Vicodin pills\nThe truth so ugly I walk with Christ on the hill\nMy life steady now because I have a life to fulfill\nFranck Muller watches and private flights to Brazil\nYou fishing for a compliment, stuck a knife in your gill\nI lived on every continent, indecisively still\nThe digital information, gigabytes in a pill\nThe shit you writing is nil\nThe sinner bites for the kill\nStupid\n«The game is over it’s a wrap»\n«We put hardcore on the map»\n«Got a reputation on the streets for keeping it rough, what?!»