I keep pushin' the fuckin' punishment, coz man,
I don't have clue about where God is sent.
Parties went from the garden of Eden into control
of the harvester of sorrow. We roamin' in foam and it's
coldin'. Holdin the golden all frozen key of tomorrow.
Yo, come 'n ax from me about this blashemy around
bad policy of makin' money. Fakin' dummy. Bakings funny
when you got 'em tips from pro-chefs in cookin' process.
No stress, go best and everything's okay in progress.
Me and Fat P is definite. A shreddin' fuckin' dose of
metamphetamine injected in ya ears. There ain't no such
thing as halfway forcible. My arsenal is known to go
beyond allowable in martial law. We live in constant
subliminal war. It seems there is no way we're out this with
minimal gore. Listen, real crackers do real things by any means.
And mothafuckas knowin' how we goin' down. It goes like...

Let me quote a little swedish here, man:
Tusen år har gått. The beast awoken, heat is smokin'.
'Bout to serve some free dish here, man, ain't you look
the bible. Cracked the page and figured out it comes in cycle.
It's written down in fuckin' -*-diary of madman.
Ya'll die as playin' Pacman.
I got this mad plan that gets us back
and we grap the gat man and blam blam that
fuckin' ass, man like Afganistan, gettin' bashed by U.S.
Judas died in vanished land. Ayo, we back in a zone
We smackin' gag in ya mouth.
and crackin' ya bone
Attack in ya home and packin' bats and we shout:
The show must go on.
Freddie has gone back into Zanzibar and so on.
OH! This won't leave you unsatisfied like when your bitch is boned
You ever played the manhunt? Man, this is Pigsy's home
Understand, all you dicks, please that no means no
I blows, ya nose bleeds like ya'll goes overdosin' speed.
My jazz is the nastiest. cast is that ya'll play masochist in
blast fest. the fastest act of crash test in all time broadcastings.
We got'em eighties type of solos here like iron maiden.
Fat P droppin' it like Yngwie malmsten or Eddie van halen. GO!

Fat P with Pick Of Destiny, DROP!!!

I'm bangin' it like Pete Sandoval with Morbid Angel.
This is recorded napalm. Sittin' with socially
distorted in rewarded table. And I'm caught in
startin' a rumble and pokin' like if my name was
Steve Austin or Bret Hart or Hulk Hogan.
You know the deal. It's go to kill. Let's go and
let 'em know how whitey mothafuckas go 'n steal.
and shove some roman steel between ya ribs.
You fuckin' hypocrites and dickheads... slain, humiliated
durin' ya homo-picnics. My rednecks is the army
full of hatred. Illest. Evil. And lookin' at ya crew reminds
me of the Village People. Yo, this shit creatures of the night.
Dark soul destroyers and deceivers of ya light.
Blast heaters at believers life. My knifeis strikin' up
ya spine. Like prize of vikings ice is risin. I keep it shinin'

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