Still fighting strong after his hundredth battle Slaughtering contenders just like diseased cattle
The handle to his weapon is your hangman’s noose Wrapped round your throat and you can’t shake loose His seed, the bastard kills his own kind Not tens, not dozens, but hundreds of times
He prepares his weapon so others will die Soaked over night, in acid it lies Heat in kiln for hours to dry Your knuckles will bleed, your mother will cry your mother will cry your mother will cryTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
