[Hook] This is all there is, now there ain’t shit left It’s like I’m looking in the eyes of the saint of death (La Santa Muerte), these people fear me I’ve seen murder, disease, it’s all near me
This is all there is, now there ain’t shit left It’s like I’m looking in the eyes of the saint of death (La Santa Muerte), I know you hear me I wrote it fucked up, you see it clearly
[Verse 1: Ill Bill] Enter the cult of the death’s gods, traffickers and ex-cons Skull and robe, hold the globe in outstretched palm A revered image of truth, here with the youth Vivid living proof spitting like El Chapo in the booth Death is the beginning, so without fear we run towards the willing Manufacturing murder anthems and songs of killing Ballads of massacre, the psalms of the forbidden Cash is the master of every broken law that is written Burning up the abomination conjuring hatred Virgin of the incarcerated martyrs of Satan Persecuted like the Inquisition in Spain Condemned, made to repent my religion of pain Set on fire like in Salem where the witches were slain Behind bars till I die for these bricks of cocaine No regrets though I pray to my saints often Holy Death, lying awake in a coffin
[Hook: Slaine]
[Verse 2: Sick Jacken] They say the world don’t spin without the hand of God While them damn priest trying to get a kid to give a handjob I guess that really means I am odd Cause I don’t let my kids get on their knees to pray for damn slobs And I ain’t talking about Jesus see I’m just speaking on the cardinals, the BC This is the crazy shit that we see That’s why I’m grateful that the streets are the only ones that teach me Yo, and on that note, they giving pedophiles months While they give the homies life for dope What kind of shit is that? That shit ain’t right though If a grown man wanna buy the right blow We’re like Vegas in a sense, you know it’s false hope Instead of slot machines and card games it’s all coke They making hustlers like us walk a tightrope While every other fucking snake is alright though
[Hook: Slaine]
[Verse 3: Slaine] New York is inhabited, there’s smoke in Los Angeles Long arm of the law is broken with bandages They call me Slaine, the La Coka evangelist Our spoken languages provoking the scandalous You dummies are dead, dummy, there’s a gun to your head There’s no loyalty left, just money instead My blood speaks the truth that none of you said You should be fighting the power, you’re running instead Where’s your heart at? Your bones weak You talk loud all the time, when I’m here you don’t speak When the heat’s on in front of you the pressure is real You’re a bunch of fucking sheep to a messenger’s hill I should have chapters in the Bible cause my testament’s real I’m a product of violence and mescaline pills Was you born to be a faggot cause it seems like it Your life ain’t nothing like mine, you just dream like it
[Hook: Slaine]Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
