for_the_fools

picking out your pockets
like am running a race
be kickin so tall so my shoe
hits your face
in the place between
the nose and the seen
eyes bleed,
and cry, and pleade
that the robbin will cease
but no
like ceas_er went to the clean_ers
brutus wasnt mean_er than my mad mad demeanor
make you pile dust for the street sweeper
trucking along in the early morning fog
driven by a zombie straight out from the bog
I'm a nightmare
I'm never fight fare
so chop you with the ax
and file down your skull
cheat like the tax collector knows full
well I'm outta hell
burn out your brain with a sulfuric smell
guess thats now all thats to tell