Alfred's Theme

Album: Music to Be Murdered By: Side B (2020)
  • Before I check the mic (check, check, one, two)
    I give it an extra swipe with a Lysol disinfectant wipe (good evening)
    Coronavirus in effect tonight
    Antiseptics on deck, I got every type (yeah)
    I throw on my tux, then I (yeah) give zero fucks, then I (yeah)
    Act like a jockstrap (uh), cup my nuts, then I (yeah)
    Check my ball hair (what?), make sure it's all there (yeah)
    Then call the pallbearer (yeah)
    It's Music to Be Murdered By again, why stop?
    Overkill like a pipe bomb in your pine box
    You're all hitched to my cock (What?)
    Went from punchin' a time clock to getting my shot
    Then treated it like a cyclops
    Like it's the only one I got
    And my thoughts are like nines cocked (chk-chk)
    Every line's obscene, pervertedest mind, got the dirtiest rhyme stocked
    That's why there's parental advising every time I drop
    So throw on the theme to Alfred, I'll channel him like the Panama Canal
    But how could I get up in arms about you saying trash is all that I put out?
    Bitch, I still get the bag when I'm putting garbage out
    Plus, the potty mouth, I'm not about to wash it out
    The filthiest, so all this talk about "I'm washed up", how preposterous
    Because if cleanliness is next to godliness
    It's obvious that it's impossible for me to be beside myself
    And I'm 'bout that capital like a proper noun
    Still on top the pile
    Got me sitting on numbers like a pocket dial
    Quick to call you out on your bullshit
    Don't make me give that crock a dial
    'Cause if I do, it's see you later, alligator
    Made it out the trailer, then I made a vow to cater to no one
    So hate, I've gained about the same amount that's in my bank account
    So here's some more shit for you to complain about, I say the
    Bars that never slack, but always get attacked (yeah)
    I think they're gunnin' for me, it's startin' to feel like that
    Like I'm marked, 'cause when I rap, it's like fallin' on my back in a tar pit
    'Cause I have this target on my back (ew, yuck)
    But if I ever double-crossed my fans and lost my Stans
    I'd probably pop five Xans (yeah)
    Go in my garage, start my van
    Inhale as much carbon monoxide and exhaust I can
    And doze off like snores, but odds like that with these thoughts I have's
    Like a giant getting squashed by ants
    If this is the test of time, I'd pass with flying colors
    Like I just tossed my crayons (tossed my crayons)
    Small, medium, and large size cans
    Sanitizers of all types, brands, cost nine bands
    Which is a small price for Lysol wipes and
    If my palms brush across my pants, I wash my hands

    Shit, hold on, man
    Happy birthday to
    Fuck (shh, quiet)

    I sit in silence in candlelit environments
    Sipping Wild Irish while getting violent
    Homicidal visions when I'm spitting like this
    But really I'm just fulfilling my wish of killing rhymes
    Which is really childish and silly, but I'm really like this
    I'm giving nightmares to Billie Eilish, I'm Diddy's side bitch

    What the fuck? Hold on, wait
    "I'm Diddy's side bitch"
    Oh, I'm still east side, bitch

    So until the E-N-D, since EPMD
    Been givin' y'all the business (yeah), D.R.E and me (yup)
    From the MMLP to MTBMB (bitch)
    Bitch, it's 2020, you still ain't seein' me (haha)
    So call me Santa Clause (Santa Clause)
    'Cause at the present (yeah), I out-rap 'em all, I'm at the mall
    Got your bitch in a bathroom stall, she could suck a basketball (uh)
    Through a plastic straw (yeah) with a fractured jaw (damn)
    My dick is coat check (ha), she wanna jack it off (yeah)
    I'm so far past the bar, I should practice law
    Mentally, I'm fucked up generally (duh)
    Dukes of Hazzard car, get the cadaver dogs
    'Cause this is murder, murder and you'll get murked, murked
    This music 'bout to kill you, brr, brr (brr)
    This chicken hit my phone, she said, "Chirp, chirp"
    I said, "Hut, hut, hike your skirt, skirt"
    Then go eat some worms, like the early bird
    What the fuck is love? That's a dirty word
    Make me fall in it, there's not a girl on Earth
    Or any other planet, that's a world of hurt
    And I won't buy a designer, 'cause I don't pander
    But I'm back with so many knots, I need a chiropractor (damn)
    And this the final chapter, 'cause I'm either frying after
    Or they gon' give me the needle (what) like a vinyl scratcher
    Yeah, I'm a card, like Hallmark
    At Walmart with a small cart buying wall art
    And y'all who claim to be dogs aren't
    No bite like a tree mostly just all bark, arf, arf
    But y'all pickin' the wrong tree, they call me dog because I'm barking (bark, bark, bar king)
    And I got a lot, yeah, like where cars park
    I'd describe it as bowling (why) ball hard (ball's hard)
    'Cause the gutter's where my mind is and when
    It's in this frame, better split like the five and the ten
    'Cause without a second to spare, I'm strikin' again
    And when the beat is up my alley, I go right for the pens
    The cypher begins
    I'm talkin' smack like heroin, the mic's a syringe
    It's like a binge, Vicodin, I would liken to tin
    My mind is a recycling bin
    There's no place I never been
    But I never budge and I never bend
    You hyperextend on me, this game's life, it depends
    Like adult diapers for men
    Even when I'm rappin' less stellar
    It's sour grapes, I still whine, I'm the best seller
    Like a trey deuce, spray you as these shots penetrate through Dre's booth
    And go straight through your grapefruit, no escape route
    So you won't leave here just scathed with a few scrape wounds
    Your ass is grass and I am not gonna graze you
    But if bar's were semi-mac's, I'd be the Mad Hatter
    'Cause I got so many caps, and you don't have any straps (nah)
    So you'd be a fitted (yeah), so don't act like you fittin' to snap
    Bitch, I'll pee on your head, like a Phillies hat (haha)
    No stoppin' me, you're on a window shopping spree
    Bitch, you'd probably go broke at the Dollar Tree
    You never buy shit, all you ever cop's a plea
    You're always punkin' out like Halloween
    You rather opt to flee, you need to stop it, punk
    Homie, you're not a G, act like you got the pump
    And you're gonna cock the heat or get the Glock and dump
    Bitch, if you shot a tree, you wouldn't pop the trunk
    Yeah, and I'm buddies with Alfred, we about to
    Disembowel them, gut 'em and scalp 'em, yeah
    This is 'bout to be the bloodiest outcome
    'Cause we gon' make you bleed with every cut from this album
    So I'm choppin' 'em up like Dahmer
    The nut job with the nuts that are bigger than Jabba the Hutt
    I'm in the cut, and I'm out for the blood
    It's lookin' like it's that time of the month
    Carvin' 'em up with the bars while I sharpen 'em up, dog and a mutt
    I'm gonna fuck your mom in the butt with a thermometer, fuckin' phenomenal, but
    Y'all'll get cut the fuck up like abdominals if you don't vámonos
    I keep droppin' like dominos, the formidable, abominable
    Stompin' a mudhole in my comp even if it's off the top of the dome
    Son 'em, get the Coppertone, I'm at the Stop and Go coppin' the Mop and Glo
    Got your stomach in knots like you swallowed rope
    You out of pocket though, like a motherfuckin' wallet stole

    Wait, why'd the beat cut off?
    Fuck it


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