Besedila: Mr. Hyde. Chronicles Of The Beas Tman. Braaains.

(feat. Necro)

[Intro:]
Why do you eat people,
Not people brains

[Necro:]
The godfather of the gore genre,
Fake mobsters get chopped,
Into pasta lasagna,
Parmesan body part salsa,
You bled like a bitch,
Red sprit, second the fucking lid,
Hit your a dick head,
Cause blood is squirting out your head like piss,
Attack bike goons,
Trooping up platoons,
Like baboons,
Pack you in a tomb,
Skin you alive like a raccoon,
Decapitated chunks,
When the thirty eight dumps,
Rep it like Tommy Huighet,
Leave you with amputated stumps,
Perverted like Pee Wee Herman,
The meat cleaver leaves you like Steve Erwin,
Squirming with heart murmins,
Like flesh sirloin,
You better bet that I'm bein deader than dead,
Your in the after life staring at your torso,
From your beheaded head,
Your fucking bugging cause,
You disrespecting I'll be cutting jugulars,
Rockin meat district butcher gloves,
Hit your frontal lobe with scissors quick,
Carve with a knife,
Hemoglobin drizzle drip,
Scar you for life on some prision shit,

[Mr. Hyde:]
Just one of my miserable actions,
I'll leave you in visible tractions,
I'm using a scissor hackin,
And both of my fists for crackin,
In vision my zombies rippin,
Your aunties, uncles, parents, grannies,
And now the ravines,
Attacks you with the quickness,
Check your cabinets,
The medicine,
Your head is in a place beyond a sedative,
Your better off deserve it,
The devil says your univalent,
My crew of hate,
Will fill the street,
In a basement building,
Built like Mr. T,
Like Rocky 3,
The cops will flee,
And shock and dock your mockery,
We're coming to get cha,
Cut you to bits,
With muddy mitts,
And stubbornness,
The cruddy pics of guts you rip,
Pick up the blood with hungry lips,
If lifes a bitch than that's a wish,
The vicious cycle get you sick,
The feds will fish for hearts intestines,
And the Marshall evidence,
A style of racial slur,
Lace your facials with my urine,
Taste and waste the pace of burnin,
Like you eight liquid detergent,
We'll hurt you kid I'm certain,
You'll be murked by lurking merchants,
That insert the blades,
That slurp your brains,
To circulate with vermin

[Outro:]
I can feel myself rott.