Poetry in the Streets lyrics

Peep the killer shit, death murder rap shit

Bitch, check it

The press runs to tape record the bloody mess

Documentation so the human race can study death

They’ll reach in through your TV speaker

They’ll feature a creature that would beat ya to death if he could meet ya

You’re executed when you’re electrocuted

Who’s responsible for a homeless man that’s dead and smells putrid?

We murdered your natural flesh after being thrown in a river

You’ll be frozen forever into a statue of death

A grasshopper in the lab, dead, stabbed in the head

Knives are like the hands of a crab

Jabbin’ your flab ‘til your abdomen bled

Throw you off a building, killin’ off your children

Drillin’ holes in your corpse until you’re spillin’ the color vermilion

We’ll split your brains, I’ll slit your veins

The impact of a bat cracked across your back is like gettin’ hit by a train

I’ll stick a fang in your blood bank, then strangle my shangle

Mangle you like the triangle teeth of a bengal

I think my shit’s too brutal for most

I might be the only one capable of digesting the dose

You won’t survive a screwdriver driven inside your throat

Choke on blood and saliva, another conniver croaks

It’s poetry in the streets of the Big Apple

And a vitality found in few other places

But look beneath the surface of the city

And you shall uncover a seething cesspool of human emotions

Gone sour, a planet where nightmares have become reality, witness the brutality

There’s poetry in the streets of the Big Apple

You get tackled and grappled to the floor, white-slaved up and shackled

I spit on your grave, piss in your mouth, and shit on your face

Grind you into slop meat and serve you to your friends

We bringin’ bad taste, another brutal shooting rampage

Turning humans to ashtrays, groupies to crack slaves, with boobies that lactate

Squirtin’ mad milk, I never have guilt

I have krills, I’ll have you fags killed

In front of your mom and dad’s grill

Splatter both of them with pieces of your exploded head

Brain fragments that stain their clothing red

I make you love the pain, it hurts

We make music for drug addict pieces of shit that love the dirt

It’s psychological, I’m like havin’ a rifle shot at you

We not the type to smile at you, we the type to body you

Slit your throat with a broken bottle

Pieces of jagged glass stabbing you through your fuckin’ eyeballs

Have you swallowin’ cyanide and screaming, “Die, whores!”

Watch me kill your physical first, next your mind’s lost

Leave you in the funeral home, you make a fine corpse

Got you splattered across the walls when my nine talks

Murder you execution style like a crime boss

Travel through time and terminate you like a cyborg

My mentality’s grindcore

It’s poetry in the streets of the Big Apple

And a vitality found in few other places

But look beneath the surface of the city

And you shall uncover a seething cesspool of human emotions

Gone sour, a planet where nightmares have become reality, witness the brutality

There’s poetry in the streets of the Big Apple

You get tackled and grappled to the floor, white-slaved up and shackled

• Artist:Necro
• Album:Gory Days