Death to the Bitch

Taste the smell of burnt cocaine
increase the senses, feed the brain.
Drown your hurt in beer and gin,
try to run: you'll never win.
You'll hit your woman call her a witch,
she deserves it, that worthless bitch.

Get your revenge at her,
she skinned you as an animal of fur.
Roll your joint burn the grass,
remember when she said you were a useless ass.
Cut her face,
quickly: it's a race.

Time has come,
fill her wounds with salt and rum.
Hear her dying screams,
filter her blood with TV screens.
Smash the bitch's face,
spray in her mouth a quart of mace.

Keep the camera focused close,
spray her with cyanide from a hose.
She's almost dead, here's the kick,
pour gasoline and light her like a wick.
Taste the smell of burning flesh,
no more screams: smile boy, you're fresh.