Serial Killa

Time to escape, I don't know where I'm headed

Up or down, left or right, life or death

I see myself in a mist of smoke

Death becomes anyone who takes me for a joke

Everyone's a killer, you know the deal

Last time I checked, you know what's real

I see my brothers flagging me down

Saying "Yo Daz, what's up with the pound?"

Everyone's got their own way to mow a person down

Whether a handshake or an SK1

The cloud becomes black, the sky becomes blue

Now you're in the midst of the Tall Pound crew

And no one knows why we do what we do

The gun is all I need to put you to rest

Two slugs and dead in the chest

Huh, it's the best

Ninety-five percent of serial killers are white

Ted Bundy, Rob DeNiro, Vanna White

Everyone's got their own way to mow you down

In the Letting Song you're bound

Deep deep, like in the mind of Minolta, picture this

Don't look now, the folk singer clenched his fist

And spread a picnic inside the morgue

Take the elevator down to the earth's core

I got the machine that cracks your chestplate

Open and release the guts and release the death cuts

A brutal jagged edge

Total roughneck, you know what a screaming is

The sky turns black, a moon turns to the sun

The stars convex into the one

Who's singing the song

Like a time bomb

White collar crime, financially motivated

Nonviolent criminal acts by the uninitiated

Respectability, high social status

Sipping tea on the deck with Johnny Mathis

There's a million different ways to mow a person down

Just ask my friend here in the psychiatric gown

Raid the boiler room or the penthouse suite

Watch the lady with the beard sweep me off my feet