covet Reaps a poor harvest In these latter days. Starve me in Boneman torture. Skin-tight lover. Pound upon pound Of flesh paid well With gnawing ache, And hunger
Ima walk to my funeral [Mia Bruce] can you feel I want to know why dont you just listen to me why dont you listen to me can you feel [Brotha Lynch Hung
Where his wheels left the road, broken glass and twisted steel Were the only traces left of that worn out Oldsmobile Oh, the mist hung on that mountain
to walk, Away from the hunger you feed, Away from the poison you need You didn't write, not a word, This book will remain unfinished Marble and stone, Funeral
Living The Land of No Return Where sins are dogma The roots of decline around her In extase, sitting on her throne A vision of despair Governing the underworld Funeral
the dawn, the supreme rage burn Of unholy spirits They hunger for your life Which doesn't really exist Because their will Is to see you suffer They...hunger
Her window was hung like a painting She worried it might come to life She stared for hours So obsessed was I and self-absorbed that I Didn't see
[Hung] Look up in the sky it's a motherfuckin slug Some nigga done let one off and only my cousins sheddin' blood That loccest muthafucka from 29 st.
your fucking own. i hope i'm there to laugh at you. is your precious ego still bruised? that's right, fuck you, asshole! i'll be singing "hallelujah" at your funeral
On love Freedom isn't given it is taken Freedom isn't free it's earned Not, no, it's learned Been hung and burned, Yet rest in peace, resurrected plea
fires, of a thousand funeral pyres We celebrate your birth on this open grave called earth The spineless, the worthless, I conquer them all, my hunger
She slept Their cruel red mouths darkened To bowed silhouettes I saw in a new moon With Her scent on my breath But then all to soon Came the hunger for
(feat. Brotha Lynch Hung, Mr. Doctor) [Talking] The year is 1994 Black Market Records, 2001 Records, and Doomsday Productions Combined forces to create
I'm looking at a funeral wagon rolling down A two-lane highway winding past a desert town A big blue canvas painted by the Master's hand The shifting
Tonight you better wear your funeral dress And I'll dress in burial drag 'Cause this one is to the end of an era Now fate is gnashing at our heels
A funeral three times a day a disgusting product rests in walking graves lies between your teeth with no voices to scream and all the blood to bleed
lay flat Cause this, some the cemetary's, the reality Where the tough guys get buried in their property Word to Sampson, the tone will get you hung I