I'm not a serial killer
This Rasta man with such a soul pan
Hold on so come so his gun preach or be shot
Two tiger bone him in your face that stand out
Might die in your hand
And your soul look chop up if you fight to go to hell
With the devil cornered
The pretty fuck in the yard
That sick he used to mock
When you see the eyes of trial
Hold the microphone and step up
Righteousness like the rest of men
Big up, have a true and real
That's a right, never give up
And mine are dreadful
People dem have big enough
But dem look unseemly