| Where’s Bill?! |
| Ah, I don’t know who Bill is! |
| Bullshit! |
| ILL Bill, Mister ILL Bill, Mister ILL Bill, Mister ILL Bill |
| ILL Bill, y’all |
| Statik Selektah on the beat, for the homie Frank The Butcher |
| Yo, it’s the Cult Leader, Megatron |
| I transform into a |
| and my uncle on methadone |
| Brooklyn to the core, System of a Down |
| Pistols in your mouth, listen now, this is something else |
| Listen how we drift about, risking our freedom by flipping out |
| Biscuits in the round, pistols at the ground, |
| Spinning in and out of consciousness |
| Riddled with about a thousand clips |
| Criminally found around him, manically sick |
| Physically endowed to riot and flip |
| Muffled horrific sounds cancel you, quiet is kept |
| Dump an entire TEC in your lungs, occupying your breath |
| On your knees in front of me, begging and crying for death |
| Demonically possessed, economically the best |
| Obsessed with sodomy and death, my commodity’s a vest |
| Yeah, we wash brains and rob planes |
| You don’t understand yet? |
| Lucifer’s the angel that God pays, homie |