(Verse 1: Jack Jetson)

I bring slaughter to hordes of humans with sick torture

The angry bees, mix anti freeze with still water

Galleries of encrypted pictures, in the super market, sprinkle DMT on the pic of mixes

66's, living in a risky business

Twisted sickness, stock opposite of richy riches

Kiss the lips of the Grim Reaper, the mark of the beast branded on the head of the gate keeper

This ain't hell, blood, it's way deeper

No way to play and beat the game, and no way to escape either

Brov, I blaze cheeba, never slack, though I stay eager, crawl like 8-legged cave creeper

Superhero cape, leap across building tops

Children lost, trapped in the potency of silky crops

Milky drops through the dreary fog in the smog

Froze-over log flumes, fumes from the shaman god

Psychoactive frog, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog

Rattle for the crackle on the analog, browse the back catalog You're level low like alcohol in Alcopops and you can get drowned in hot battery acid

In an animated vessel like Jessica, its Jack the Rabbit

With a sack of cabbage, smoking on a massive carrot

The transparent, bandwagon, sand dragon, babylon, phantasm

Plasma strand, hand cannon, bang bang em', mutated rap phantom

Dark room lit up by the black lantern

Mind track, random, air craft crash landin'

Inter dimensional war until it's last man standin'

(Verse 2: Jack Jetson)

Injure in the shadows, sword flinging back your arrows

Grand master leaver rapper, swinging from the Gallows

Shit is fucking rago's

Modern day Robin Hood, coming for your crop of bud, foot runnin' across the woods

Fuck a box of goods, I bop with a box of tricks

Box ya lips, spinnin' helicopter kicks'll block your licks

On the eve of the apocalypse, I cotch with lit spliffs of that broccoli shit, sip on a vodka mix

The opposite of everyone, robotic like I'm Megatron

The berry (?), the cheese (?), the chronic's very strong

Pick a mix, very long spliff that I build, I flip the double L, sip my drink, triple distilled

Unlimited kills, the thought of it giving me chills

Born in the city, never lived in the hills, addicted to thrills

Fake name tag: Christopher Mills

On a mission till what's hidden in my history spills

I'm on some stealth shit, plus I only think about myself- prick

I'll fuck up your health quick, choke you with a felt tip and hang you from your garden fence, smell the lager stench

Half drenched, Clark Kent, sitting on the park bench

Arms hench, you can get licked with the car wrench