Boondox - Seven |
Seven
Boondox (A tisket, a tasket The scarecrow's out his casket Turn out the lights and lock the door Prayin' that he passes) A vision of the dead in the inbred backwoods Motha fucka born inside a tool shed Momma never loved me, never paid me no attention Daddy was a rapist, thirty years up state in Fulton County Prison And I was raised by my own will Survivin' off'a scraps and bones, bear traps and road kill Spendin' my days and my nights all alone And my mind is gone there's somethin' wrong with my dome They should'a put me in the tomb, I didn't ask for this life When they cut me out the womb with a dull pocket knife Now I walk with a sight and a murderous ability A corn-fed motha fucka filled with hostility Cracked out and I'm gone off that moonshine A hundred eighty proof wine made from that muska dyin Out in these corn fields learnin all these wicked skills Swingin' slicin' choppin' dicin' Country boy born to kill CHORUS (2x) A demon spawn, the child of a bastard son Seven born at seven and the seventh child fathered one So black full of pain Bodies in the field, blood pourin' like rain Dont get lost in the woods in your black expedition On a dark dirt road so suspicious, just trees and ditches Headlights flicker and it's got you turnin' switches Now you so damn scared you 'bout to shit in your britches You can't think straight all you hear is heavy breathin' Are your eyes just deceivin' wut it is that you seein' When I pull up the eight four, pistol in the floorboard Blast out your back glass got you screamin' oh no You finna' know the reason and you 'bout to find out Wut it is to suffer with a rusted blade in your mouth Nowhere to run nowhere to hide Bein' stalked by the scarecrow the blood line of Malakai I hear these voices talkin' they won't leave me alone Tell me snatch up this bitch by her hair and drag her home Over my shoulder in the back of a pickup truck Can't wait to get her home and hold her bleed her then chop her up CHORUS (2x) A demon spawn, the child of a bastard son Seven born at seven and the seventh child fathered one So black full of pain Bodies in the field, blood pourin' like rain A tisket, a tasket The scarecrow's out his casket Turn out the lights and lock the door Prayin' that he passes |