One for the Butcher Knife ’93 lyrics

[Chorus X2]
One for the butcher knife, two for the Glock!
(You can't kill me, 'cause I'm already dead! X3)

[Necro]
Peep my little friend his name is M-1-6
I got the butcher, knife to cut your f*ckin' heart out for kicks
I'm on a killing spree, like a n*gga named Manson
Right around your grave kid, is where I'll be dancin';
The Cha-Cha, you tried to flex and I shot ya
Ten to the head, and now you're motherf*ckin' brain dead
Mad Moony needs mad clips
I got more rubber in my Glock than artificial hips
So now you're dead kid
'Cause you f*ckin' bled kid
Every time I shot you in your motherf*ckin' head kid
When you call my suicidal hotline
I'll tell you to blow your f*ckin' brains out, with a TEC-9
Blowin' off your lips is somethin' I promote
So light up an M80 and shove it down your f*ckin' throat
The rougher, the more you suffer, I'm the Messiah
My rhymes are thicker, than the afro on Richard Pryor
So f*ck, f*ck f*ck f*ck
If you step to the corpse then your goin' to catch a buck
You stupid f*ck
Check out the way the beat grooves
They call me horny; 'cause I f*ck anything that moves
My f*cked up rhymes are sure to offend ya
So I'll drive, over your body like the n*ggas from Toxic Avenger
Rip out your brain through your nose
And when a girl comes over, I got a whole selection of dildos
So die motherf*cker die
And don't ask me why punks get bruised up like Soleil Moon Frye
I rock a house party like Molile
And I f*cked a dead corpse to techno, 'cause I'm a necrophile
So if you're warm ca-ca, get with this
If not I'll bust out my di*k, and p*ss in your esophagus
I drank a blood donor's deposit
Now Moony's out like a faggot that just came out of the f*ckin' closet
[Chorus X4]
One for the butcher knife, two for the Glock!
(You can't kill me, 'cause I'm already dead!)

[Goretex]
Check one, two, I got clout like a mortician
I got more fresh body parts than Dahmer's kitchen
A lime to a lemon, a lemon to a lime
I rock a dead n*gga skin every time I drop my rhyme
The Stormtroopers of Death, yeah that's how it flows
No one knows, I want your money and your clothes
I stink like sex, I rob b*tches welfare checks
And I rob more cribs than Malcolm X
Yes it's the butcher with more di*k than Clark
I love to bash b*tches on the head in Central Park
Position, sicko, infamous junkie
A TEC-9 connected to my spine shows I'm funky
The fridge is filled with fresh killed body parts
The n*ggas who dissed me, the b*tches who broke my heart
Now I'm Mister Murder
The dildo inserter
Baptized in blood I'm the celebate converter
Ain't misbehaven
Sick like Wes Craven
I'll open your mom's legs, vagina's unshaven
Bitin' the heads off Glocks like Ozzy Osbourne
Dead celebrities, with the Children of the Corn
The butcher block Glock rock scream until you die
Goretex put me in the chair till I fry!
[Chorus X4]
One for the butcher knife, two for the Glock!
(You can't kill me, 'cause I'm already dead!)

[ILL BILL]
The official distorted body parts chop-a-chops your body
Piece by mothaf*ckin' piece
Then I study the anatomical breakdown of the human physique
The Blood Suckin' Freaks speaks then you drop deceased
Need I say more? Maybe I do
These days I be grabbin' for my Glock whenever me and my crew
Step into a n*gga pullin' the trigger, this area
Territories all occupied by hysteria
And it gets scarier by the minute
'Cause I got n*ggas screamin' just like a b*tch at the abortion clinic
Damned if I do, damned if I don't
I'll f*ck a pregnant b*tch up her ass after I slit her throat
And throw her body off of the roof top
Chop chop, then drop pieces, dead celebrities releases
The mostest grossest, sicker than multiple sclerosis
Mumbo jumbo, even your brain's hopeless
'Cause there's no hope when the camouflage is comin' at ya to gat ya
Full face mask and Timb' boots to fracture
Your f*cking face takes my size twelve
Mr. ILL BILL is coming straight from Hell
To f*ck up a felon no turning back, my gat crack
With hollow tips my TEC rips then flips my stack, a f*ckin' rap
After the blood spoke I smoke another
After I stab up your pops I f*ck your mother
Yeah, I'll hit the f*ckin' puss with my p*nis
More fractured a chump drop Adidas when my meat hits
Between, butt cheeks, titties, and c*ck lips
My c*ck sticks gross
After my jizm jumps that's all she wrote
'Cause I'm f*ckin' detected from the puss to the rectum
Eye sockets to ear drums, the deviated septum
Then pull out my c*ck and shoot the b*tch with my Glock
Collect my props, then BILL's out like acid rock!
[Chorus X4]
One for the butcher knife, two for the Glock!
(You can't kill me, 'cause I'm already dead!)