Mr. Fire in the Booth

I take 'em out (All on my own) Cos that's the way im made Maybe in your culture suicide is being brave The sage of the page makes graves plagued with dark ages And ain't no choice to be buried I only do cremating For little idiots thats not even rated Not even hated not even a factor that needs to be calculated And you can't explain it, much less contain it Roll with us or get crushed, that i've already stated In the plainest terms But fools never learn Still tryna be what they're not like wearing the blondest perm Cos of loss of purpose, I have you lost on purpose You can't escape the furnace, so best you praise my verses Look around the cooning's a lot I spit a sentence quick like a judge with a coon in the dock But these clowns with their dead sound hate me Still they don't count like a dead brown baby