| Got bloody bodies all around me, I’m chewin out on somebody’s flesh
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| I love the smell of rotten corpse like maggots diggin all through your chest
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| A gravedigger, tomb raider, quick to get in yo' spot and make a mess
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| Rip the head off your body, sip the blood straight out yo' neck
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| Black Nosferatu walkin the streets feelin the city not as a threat
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| Look at the public and that, panicked manic man straight on yo' set
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| Black mask, long machete and the blade is covered with blood
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| Dirty suit, guerilla boots, and the whole body’s still covered in mud
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| Walk the cemetery at night, 12 midnight with a shovel
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| Speakin to the spirits talkin to me, thinkin is that God or is it the Devil?
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| Feed me, I’m hungry, I’ma chew on your face
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| Feed me, I’m hungry, I’ma chew on your flesh
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| Feed me, I’m hungry, I’ma chew on your face
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| Feed me, I’m hungry, I’ma dig in yo' chest
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| Y’all niggas just be killin me
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| Don’t like my style, just don’t deal with me
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| Y’all niggas just be killin me
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| Even worser than them bitches that envy me
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| Y’all niggas done done all that there talkin, now you bleedin
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| Please believe it. |
| believe it
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| The blood streamin from your vein, two and two, the M-Balmer
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| I’m true to you, you know I got you boo! |
| (boo)
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| Creep through the streets of Los Skandelous
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| Business really boomin up and down the list
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| Niggas can’t handle it
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| Directin funerals of nothin but love
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| What about it nigga? |
| Criminals and drug dealin
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| Or that bitch nigga strictly bout his skrilla
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| Or fucked with me and I peeled yo' cap nigga
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| Always expectin the unexpected
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| Undatakerz, they detect it
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| Don’t be trippin off me… just need to sweat it
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| Gravediggers, strictly fo' they cheddar
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| You said it’s eerie, it’s dreary, you weary
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| But none of mines is leary, y’all niggas can’t feel me
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| There’s more red beans in the back
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| Who cares who know who in the spotlight
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| I’d rather listen to Beelow comin tthrough New Orleans with Project Pat
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| With Skull Duggery, Hollow Tip, and Tre-8
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| New York should be lovin me, word and I’m fatal
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| I’m comin out of nowhere
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| You see me comin out the under, the master of distribution
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| Out of nowhere like Kane & Abel, in magazines like Big Bear
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| I move units over there, like Pistol and Mac Dre
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| I cuts up and put it out anyway
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| Y’all work for the company and release date
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| When I send all masters to city hall in Bayside it’s gon' be too late
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| 300,000 rappers sittin out on milk crates
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| Skinny Pimp and Three 6, y’all hit them big licks
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| Lil' Jon and the Eastside Boyz
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| Rumble speaker down South with noise, make money mayne
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| No time for F.O. |
| and G.I. |
| Joe
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| Commercial boobs in Belvedere videos
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| Fake chairs and toys, incense on the corner, your rap get destroyed
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| Baton Rouge, you should call me Mr. Scrooge
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| And when girls y’all ridin around with transexuals and dudes
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| Comin to rich men drinkin booze
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| With gators on, fly and shine they shoes
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| I gotta get gas, pick up the girls, change clothes
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| Drop Frank off and Hank off |