Blood's On The Textiles, Leaking...

Spitters hit the beat when they're pitted against them, I go off at any moment so go off I guess.

With a little bit I can play them around the clock, minutes in condemning them in a locked position.

These lyrics aren't made for shock when they're aren't made for revitalizing, blocks their breathing.

Just up straight decapitate, busted lungs flooded the rest of them, rust's up I made it age by the page.

Making them look uncomfortable like drunken runts, taking me under it's impossible when I've sunken in.

My teeth, locked in place you can't stop them they're braced in, to speak in layman's I can't be beat in the least.

Abandon peace when I hand them these, if I suffer from Writer's Block then I mutter stress out randomly.

It's an orchestra of murder, I might've gone mad but then how I can be rapping crazily with on pen and paper.

Say the magic words and I lay the tragic occurrence so that it's electrifying the night, brightening everything in sight.

My strikes aren't calculated but as far as that I'm a calculated, you could never made a statement further from truth.

Be grateful this is a sixteen-bar verse, I could hand out a plate full of stuff which's far worse, pick your curse.

Tricked what you observe, slip in blood to paint the curtains and with my own hands to strain the words from the cloth.

Murder's the intention and burials aren't included, leave them on the floor and see where the blood flow go.

Follow the trail and swallow the fear, because all you can smell and here is the horror, you'd feel the cold wind blow.

Still you begin to slow, edging closer to the door, are you supposed to go, probably no but you'd see how the story goes.

Chop you and drop you as soon you stop by, call it horrorcore but I'm just laying a path for them all to follow to death.