54 Lyrics - Singles - Smut Peddlers

Kill that cat, watch me kill that cat 

If it's your girl, I'm lookin' at 

Then watch me kill that cat 

I hunt cunts like these, with underground disease 

In they yearly matin' spots, spawn a million MC's 

They used to go to shows, drink dance get high 

Then you click the mic the whole audience wanna rhyme 

In '92 I let the Cage outta Alex 

Through college radio demonstrate the fist, fuck the love ballads 

Summon demons in my ad libs, fun triplin' 

Vomit good shit, go feed off dead Christians 

Red light in the Lincoln, from drinkin' Drencrom 

The corpse in my eye can explain the thinkin' 

While I lay behind a wall of flesh, engulfed by the homeless 

If I escape, I might evaporate my whole state 

Plus when Cage ripped in half on the concrete 

Screamin', "That's my spirit running down the street" 

The undead, writin' in gun lead 

Liposuct' a fat bitch out her box with one hypo' jab 

Inject tiger serum, I can't hear 'em, who? 

Alex with the fuckin' loaded thirty-oh-two, 'cause 

This is for the whores, and the kicked over stores 

And fifty-four dollars in my pocket on tour 

This is for the kid that said, "Oh, you dead" 

And the fifty-four stitches that he caught in his head 

This is for the clowns, I beat with no hands 

And the two O-Z's, down to fifty-four grams 

With two to the face, I'm a basket face 

With fifty-four seconds to outer space 

I love a bull mastiff ground up, make a pound up 

With green Jesus, get in I'll drive you to seizures 

Humanoid pause, before God, with cyborg dogs after me 

Killin' these rhymin' Sigmund Freuds for the cause 

Your whole life's a waitin' room for worms 

Strangest occurs, you see Venus in furs 

With toast out facin' Earth, avenge my sixteen 

Your old shell talk to pistols like Starscream 

My whole story lost on a wall in black marker 

66 more flicks for Clive Barker 

With a little message, for real research kids 

Can you guess who the faggot DJ is? 

My anti-commercial style will curse you 

Say fuck so much, my airplay's like curfew 

To third shift farm chemists, the senate scarred 

Start killin' all the livin' like the Serbian guards 

You supportin' communism buyin' majors so dub 

Watch me put two rocks in Kurt Loder head, whassup 

This is for the whores, and the kicked over stores 

And fifty-four dollars in my pocket on tour 

This is for the kid that said, "Oh, you dead" 

And the fifty-four stitches that he caught in his head 

This is for the clowns, I beat with no hands 

And the two O-Z's, down to fifty-four grams 

With two to the face, I'm a basket face 

With fifty-four seconds to outer space 

The undead, red light in the Lincoln 

For Cage, ripped, in half on the concrete 

Screamin', "That's my spirit runnin' down the street" 

Runnin' down the street, runnin down, running down the street