(feat. Goretex And Ill Bill)



[Hook]

One for the butcher knife, two for the glock!

(You can't kill me, cause I'm already dead)



[Necro]

Peep my little friend his name is M one six

I got the butcher, knife, to cut your fuckin' heart out for kicks

I'm on a killing spree, like a nigga named Manson

Write a rhyme on your grave kid, it's where I'll be dancin'

The cha cha, you try to flex and I shot ya

Ten to the head, and now you're motherfuckin' brain dead

Mad moonies need mad clips

I got more rubber in my glock than artificial hips

So now you're dead kid

Cause you fuckin bled kid

Every time I shot you in your motherfuckin' head kid

When you call my suicidal hotline

I'll tell you to blow your fuckin' brains out with a tek-9

Blowin off your lips is somethin I promote

So light up an M-80 and shove it down your fuckin' throat

The rougher, the more you suffer, I'm the messiah

My rhymes are thicker, than the afro on Richard Pryer

So fuck, fuck fuck fuck

If you step to the corpse than your goin' to catch a buck

You stupid fuck

Check out the way to beat grooves

They call me horny, cause I fuck anything that moves

My fucked up rhymes are sure to offend ya

So I'll drive over your body like the niggaz from toxic avenger

Rip out your brain through your nose

And when a girl comes over I got a whole selection of dildos

So die motherfucker die

And don't ask me why punks get bruised up like Soleil Moonfry

I rock a house party like Molile

And I fucked a dead corpse to techno, cause I'm a necrophile

So if you're warm ca-ca, get with this

If not i'll bust out my dick, and piss in your esophagus

I drank a blood donor's deposit

Now Moony's out like a fagget that just came out of the fuckin' closet



[Hook]

One for the butcher knife, two for the glock!

(You can't kill me, cause I'm already dead)



[Goretex]

Check one, two, I got clout like a mortician

I got more fresh body parts than Dama's kitchen

A lime to a lemon, a lemon to a lime

I rock a dead nigga skin every time I drop my rhyme

The storm troopers in death gear, that's how it flows

No one knows, I want your money and your clothes

I stink like sex, I rob bitches welfare checks

And I rob more cribs than Malcolm X

Yes it's the butcher with more Dick than Clark

I love to bash bitches on the head in central park

Position, sicko, infamous junkie

A tek-9 connected to my spine shows I'm funky

The fridge is filled with fresh killed body parts

The niggaz who dissed me, the bitches who broke my heart

Now I'm mista murder

The dildo inserter

Baptized in blood I'm the celebate converter

Ain't misbehaven

Sick like Wes Craven

I'll open your mom's legs, vagina's unshaven

Bitin' the heads off gocks like Ozzy Osborne

Dead celebrities, with the Children of the Corn

The butcher block glock rock scream until you die

Goretex put me in the chair till I fry



[Hook]

One for the butcher knife, two for the glock!

(You can't kill me, cause I'm already dead)



[Ill Bill]

The official distorted body parts chop-a-chops your body

Piece by mothafuckin' piece

Then I study the anatomical breakdown of the human physique

The blood suckin freaks speaks then you drop the sea

Need I say more? Maybe I do these days

I be grabbin up my glock whenever me and my crew

Step into a nigga pullin' the trigger in this area

Territories all occupied by hysteria

And it gets scarier by the minute

Cause I got niggaz screamin' just like a bitch at the abortion clinic

Damned if I do, damned if I don't

I'll fuck a pregnant bitch up her ass after I slit her throat

And throw her body off of the roof top

Chop chop, then drop pieces, dead celebrities releases

The mostess grossest, sicker than multiple cirrhoses

Mumbo jumbo, even your brain's hopeless

Cause there's no hope when the camouflage is comin' at ya to get ya

food faced mask and two boots, the fracture

Your fucking face takes my size twelve

Mr. Ill Bill is coming straight from hell

To fuck up a felon no turning back, my gat crack

With hollow tips my tek rips then flips my stack, a fuckin rap

After the blood spoke I smoke another

After I step up your pops I fuck your mother

Yeah, I'll hit the fuckin' puss with my penis

More fractured a chump drop adidas when my meat hits

Between, butt cheeks, titties, and cock lips

My cock sticks gross

After my jizm jumps that's all she wrote

Cause I'm fuckin detected from the puss to my rectum

Eye sockets to ear drums a deviated septum

Pull out the glock shoot the bitch with my glock

Collect my props, then Bill's out like acid rock



[Hook]

One for the butcher knife, two for the glock!

(You can't kill me, cause I'm already dead