(Blaze)
My styles are Grundy, gritty and crusted with mold
My body is a shell, inside is a tortured soul
Waiting to grab a hold, of everything you that know
And casually throw it all right out the window
I return from the beyond again, with a shovel on my shoulder
And a photograph of him, from the dark, backwards
counter-clockwards,
A lot of the words that I said, they went unheard
Buried in the casket, tucked under the earth
For so long, with hopes that no one would get hurt,
from this raging retard
Riddled with bullet holes, when you