Si me critican no importa

de El 100Ttifico Live

In the loony bin, you know where to find 'em
Get a ticket, come and kick it with the Devil
Instrumental patient in the Rhyme Asylum
My speakers at full blast in my padded room
In the loony bin, you know where to find 'em
Get a ticket, come and kick it with the Devil
Instrumental patient in the Rhyme Asylum
My speakers at full blast in my padded room

Hey, I don't give a fuck if you suck my dick or buy a mask (no!)
Either way, you're up for elimination (yup!)
What I'm trying to say, you a puppet for demonstration
And these words are me explaining how to murder for entertainment
(No!) I don't hate the world, you can bet I hate it here
(So!) Let me make that Crystal Lake clear
I'll be angry for eternity and always mad as hell, well
The vocal booth like a padded cell, swell

(You've been doing great work, Lee!) Thank you, Satan
The pen and paper, my medication, I know what's waitin'
At the end of the line, so there's limited time (fuck)
A truly friend of the Devil, really is a friend of mine
I knock three times on the window with the hand of an amputee
So you really know that it's me (hi)
But the people seldom see the sickness inside of my cranium
My brains are truly rotting, and these rhymes laying decayed in them

I'm strapped down, sedated, and I haven't been admitted yet
The scent of flesh got me going ravenous, so it's for the best
Filthy pigs in the Vatican with their woven tapestries
Predicted this happening as I'm burning down their travesty
Watch out! You'll come up missin' in Lost Lakes
And the walls up there padded admittedly all fake
Take this jacket off and try me, I'll find you a crawlspace
Yo it feels like coincidence, really it's all fate (bitch)

Laughing at my gown, I'm gettin' sick of these bastards (fuck y'all)
My dick is stickin' out because I'm wearin' it backwards
All I did was post some body parts that I had for sale
Cops got mad as hell (my bad!) trapped me in a padded cell
Guess the little wretches didn't like my vile game (so)
I killed 'em all with weapons that rhyme with their name (dead)
I recall the first, his name was Paul Statt (who?)
I made his skull crack with a baseball bat

Every word written for when the verse is spittin'
Another tool in the kill kit for instrumentals turned victim
Hand pick 'em, learn their patterns, it's a system
Once I grab 'em, it's a habit to go at it like a savage
Up and stab it, body bag, tag it, burn and fuckin' pitch 'em
Fuckin' vermin, I won't miss 'em, serve their purpose, now they're with 'em
All the others who were murdered simply 'cause I like the rhythm
And I'll do it all again since I've been admitted in this Rhyme Asylum