On the Prowl - Mr. Hyde

I’m dressed to kill with the Glock and 38 on my waist line

And merkin you to me will translate to a great time

The guns that I hold demand the money or motive

If I don’t get it then you better bet the gun’ll explode

They’re loaded aimin' your face son and tearin' shit up

Forget blastin your gut make sure your casket is shut

The black sheep of the bunch turning the weak into lunch

Yo I’m hungry for your flesh like I ain’t eaten in months

I’ll dig in with my ox and let it drag on your tan line

Put heads in the box and stab the handle with care signs

I’ll be in disguise ready to stick you with knives

And leave your arms crossed like Forrest Whitaker’s eyes

You sure you ready to die by this machette of mine?

It takes just one stride for your head to divide

Fuckin bludgeoned all night during my games of death

The cops’ll struggle to find where your remains are left

They’re underneath the weeds rotting in the breeze

Chillin with the flies, beetles, and the centipedes

A distant memory, your existence is gone

You’re on your way to the gates, where you’ll be visiting God

I’m on the prowl huntin for your head or your chest

Leavin you dead like the rest I got a fetish for death

I’m on the prowl son so you can run and evade

It’s all the same in the end you got a date with my blade (2x)

It be the Children of Corn style the killa with sword I’ll

Unleash a plague of bees about a billion a sworn pile

Desolate drug supply the strength of my hunt

But when I catch you you’re strung up hung by flesh of their tongues

Son, revenge is the script, you’ll be eventually ripped

Tossed in pendulum pits until you stench of the crypt

You’ll be hunted for days by thugs with guns and grenades

Fuckin punchin your face until you’re sunk in the grave

Blades are stuck in your brain, laced, and stuck in the lake

You should’ve ducked when I sprayed, son you’re a fuckin disgrace

Dirty lesions on your grill, pus excretions will be spilled

Gore adhesives will be filled with blood you leaked before you’re killed

My sinister inside drugged with hundreds of pills

It’s Two Minutes to Midnight, better run to the hills

I’m leavin you deceased, burning bullets get released

Earth is sure to hear you screech like guitars of Judas Priest

Next step you’re check mated, your vest is invaded

The hollow tip shells your chest is seperated

You’re caught up in a mess of tortured long death

On the deck, more or less, a corpse with torn flesh