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    Smut Peddlers / Lyrics

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    "54" Lyrics

    Smut Peddlers

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    Duration:00:34:58
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    Lyrics

    Kill that cat, watch me kill that cat
    If it's your girl, I'm lookin' at
    Then watch me kill that cat

    I hunt cunts like these, with underground disease
    In they yearly matin' spots, spawn a million MC's
    They used to go to shows, drink dance get high
    Then you click the mic the whole audience wanna rhyme

    In '92 I let the Cage outta Alex
    Through college radio demonstrate the fist, fuck the love ballads
    Summon demons in my ad libs, fun triplin'
    Vomit good shit, go feed off dead Christians

    Red light in the Lincoln, from drinkin' Drencrom
    The corpse in my eye can explain the thinkin'
    While I lay behind a wall of flesh, engulfed by the homeless
    If I escape, I might evaporate my whole state

    Plus when Cage ripped in half on the concrete
    Screamin', "That's my spirit running down the street"
    The undead, writin' in gun lead
    Liposuct' a fat bitch out her box with one hypo' jab

    Inject tiger serum, I can't hear 'em, who?
    Alex with the fuckin' loaded thirty-oh-two, 'cause

    This is for the whores, and the kicked over stores
    And fifty-four dollars in my pocket on tour
    This is for the kid that said, "Oh, you dead"
    And the fifty-four stitches that he caught in his head

    This is for the clowns, I beat with no hands
    And the two O-Z's, down to fifty-four grams
    With two to the face, I'm a basket face
    With fifty-four seconds to outer space

    I love a bull mastiff ground up, make a pound up
    With green Jesus, get in I'll drive you to seizures
    Humanoid pause, before God, with cyborg dogs after me
    Killin' these rhymin' Sigmund Freuds for the cause

    Your whole life's a waitin' room for worms
    Strangest occurs, you see Venus in furs
    With toast out facin' Earth, avenge my sixteen
    Your old shell talk to pistols like Starscream

    My whole story lost on a wall in black marker
    66 more flicks for Clive Barker
    With a little message, for real research kids
    Can you guess who the faggot DJ is?

    My anti-commercial style will curse you
    Say fuck so much, my airplay's like curfew
    To third shift farm chemists, the senate scarred
    Start killin' all the livin' like the Serbian guards

    You supportin' communism buyin' majors so dub
    Watch me put two rocks in Kurt Loder head, whassup

    This is for the whores, and the kicked over stores
    And fifty-four dollars in my pocket on tour
    This is for the kid that said, "Oh, you dead"
    And the fifty-four stitches that he caught in his head

    This is for the clowns, I beat with no hands
    And the two O-Z's, down to fifty-four grams
    With two to the face, I'm a basket face
    With fifty-four seconds to outer space

    The undead, red light in the Lincoln
    For Cage, ripped, in half on the concrete
    Screamin', "That's my spirit runnin' down the street"
    Runnin' down the street, runnin down, running down the street
    This song was submitted on March 30th, 2011 and last modified on October 18th, 2016.
    Copyright with Lyrics © Peermusic Publishing.
    Written by Christian Palko, Milo Berger.
    Lyrics licensed by LyricFind.

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