Louis Logic. Debacle In A Bottle: A Not Album. Visceral Literal. Zeneszám

[Talking: Louis Logic]
You son of a bitch...
Grimey fuck...

...

[Rapping: Louis Logic]
I hate you from the bottom of my heart
Smart talkin' bitch, rap-pseudo intellectual chit chat
You don't have to? wear a thought or peer at all?
When I heave a big axe at the back of your neck and head
And tear it off, soft, silly putty bullshit
I live to strip the flesh from off your bones, holmes
Homegrown slasher flick, spill the blood of pacifists
Kill your cousin and your kids, violent, nihilist
Stab your weak ass DJ with' a stylus, right up in his eyelids
Never, never, ever sever ties
Unless it's severing the spine from the nerve-endings of a clever guy
Runnin' from a cop car, clothes soaked in the blood of pop stars
Murdering is not hard! It's only hard not to murder!
'Cause women just look sexier, when they're chopped to burger...
Sliced down to size 'til it resembles anorexia
What chick wouldn't want a naked killer standin' next to her?
I guess it's just, guess it's just, probably it's, obvious
My hobby is, slayings of the sloppiest degree!
I'm an ominous disease or a gift from God
Eating people is a job, dining on a human shish kebab
With a slob's mannerisms, I'm still wearin' lunch
From yesterday on my shirt, at my Sunday mornin' brunch
Old folks havin' aneurysms, when I hunt
On the news, women found with blunt
Objects jammed up in their cunt
We interrupt this broadcast for a special newsflash
Today I stuck a shotgun up this broad's ass (blam!)
Back to you Tom, bad news, reporting live,
Following a serpentine blood trail at the murder scene
Back to your regular program,
Of bludgeonin' yuppies with their cellular phone then
Carvin' a grown man, down to the shape of a child
Now find the outline and save it a while
I got a sentiment for dismemberment
And enjoy scrawling letters in blood with poor penmanship
I'm like dismember, disembowel, disavow
Show up at the precinct, and ask is this allowed
With a gouge in my forehead
Shaped like a crescent moon and star
And a shirt that says "I kill for Allahu Akbar"
So I'm only doin' God's work
Waitin' for some unaware, under aged chicks outside a concert
The monster, who strikes like clockwork
Guerrilla, serial killer, fuckin' stiff chicks until my cock hurts
I'm a terrorist, heavenless, specialist, pessimist
Ever since my dog started sendin' mixed messages
Chicks with big breastsesses, started turnin' up dead
Found on an altar with altered measurements
Effortless precision, sharp knife management
Executed by the champion of killin' transients

[Drums play until end]