One for the Butcher Knife ’93

Lyrics

[Chorus X2] One for the butcher knife, two for the Glock! (You can't kill me, 'cause I'm already dead! X3) [Necro] Peep my little friend, his name is M-1-6 I got the butcher, knife to cut your fuckin' heart out for kicks I'm on a killing spree, like a nigga named Manson Right around your grave, kid, is where I'll be dancin' The Cha-Cha, you tried to flex and I shot ya Ten to the head, and now you're motherfuckin' brain dead Mad Moonie needs 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 TEC-9 Blowin' off your lips is somethin' I promote So light up an M80 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 Pryor So fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck If you step to the corpse then you're goin' to catch a buck You stupid fuck Check out the way the 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 niggas 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 Moon Frye 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 caca, get with this If not, I'll bust out my dick, and piss in your esophagus I drank a blood donor's deposit Now Moonie's out like a faggot that just came out of the fuckin' closet [Chorus X4] 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 Dahmer'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 Stormtroopers of Death, yeah, 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 TEC-9 connected to my spine shows I'm funky The fridge is filled with fresh killed body parts The niggas who dissed me, the bitches who broke my heart Now I'm Mister 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 Glocks like Ozzy Osbourne 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! [Chorus X4] 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 Bloodsuckin' Freaks speaks then you drop deceased Need I say more? Maybe I do These days I be grabbin' for my Glock whenever me and my crew Step into a nigga pullin' the trigger, this area Territories all occupied by hysteria And it gets scarier by the minute 'Cause I got niggas 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 mostest grossest, sicker than multiple sclerosis Mumbo jumbo, even your brain's hopeless 'Cause there's no hope, when the camouflage is comin' at ya to gat ya Full face mask and Timb' boots to 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 TEC rips then flips my stack, a fuckin' rap After the blood spoke I smoke another After I stab 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 the rectum Eye sockets to ear drums, the deviated septum Then pull out my cock and shoot the bitch with my Glock Collect my props, then BILL's out like acid rock! [Chorus X4] One for the butcher knife, two for the Glock! (You can't kill me, 'cause I'm already dead!)