(Lyrics below): You can call me Death. You can call me reaper. You can call me Poetic the pathetic and repellent nihilistic rhetorician, who be reminiscing up in seventh heaven bout the time he ran with sharp fucking weapons down the steps to the Devil on a jet-black night—slicing and maiming and fucking lacerating ere body in sight, praying to the blood that covered his sight! God Damn I'm riddled with spite! As a yute the doctor's hoped that the Ritalin might rid me of my volatility and unruly cruelty to everyone who tried to soothe me. "But yo, listen bitch, who you tryna fix?" is what I thought at motherfucking six. Then by 14, I was like: "Fuck this shit! I'm a 'lost cause' am I? 'I'm headed to Broodmoor'? 'My violence is terrifying'? 'I'm destined to addiction or [motherfucking] Prison?' Well, let me show you what a wankerous, cantankerous, maliciously flagitious red-headed little whipper can whip up when decides that he will ride a septic thought to its dreadful conclusion!" I was left in seclusion, grooving to a most gruesome movie in my mind—trust me, I ain't lying, it looked something like an: adamantine elephantine, atrabilious, supercilious, silly little rap-rocker rocking and popping ere body in their fucked-up face. I'm just a fucked up kid who was shunned by the village and put in motherfucking cells to fester. But now I'm fed-up and freezing and kind of in need of a little bit of warmth. Yeah ... Now I'm kind of in need of a little bit of warmth! So I'ma torch, torch, torch it all down; and I'ma scorch, scorch, scorch ya whole town! So Bun Everything! You can send me to the gallows! At night I hang shackled on the ramshackled scaffold of my blighted heart. I don't fight the dark, I knock malign rhymes, time-after-time out the park. Who needs love anyway? I'm an artistic anchorite who ranks his writing high and fights with seraphim. I'm a terrible rude feral dude who taunts these risible "Mc's" empty efforts. I'm a vacant vagrant that slayed Satan just to get em out my face—and don't mistake that for righteousness, cos I'm rife with sin. Mr. Misdemeanour. Mr. rip the scene up. Mr. Malcontent. Mr. riling ten Devils to raise ten shovels to stir up shit like syrup in ya shake. And mate ... One thing I execrate is fake a liars eye's! It's pathetic how these phonies get lionized while I lie at night lighting cancer sticks beset with a heap of genius that these lamebrain dullards could never—ever!—hope to attain. So, tell me who to blame for this tempest I sail through? Who I gotta thank for this rampant angst and rank depression? I'm a consummate mic psycho maestro and it's evident that heaven done gave me this crazy ability to rip through infinity. My spit is carcinogenic and my dick is nepenthe and ya bitch done and sucked it, so fuck ya couple's counselling. I'm a motherfucking mountain, mounting a monstrous mutiny with mighty fucking mutants. You motherfucking cunts shoulda slayed me as a yute, cos now that raging, acid bathing dude is here to set flames and bun the whole vicinity. This world ghosted me! Haha! Alright! Now the world is toast to me!
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