Bad Hombres

[Verse 1: Vinnie Paz]
Tucked the cannon in the lo fabric
Slick Rick grills, 24 gold carats
The Kimber K6s is so savage
It blew his brains all over the ghost mattress
The cartier vintage like ghost rabbits
Man sent to Dennis Wilson crib, so lavish
We went up in his face with a stone hatchet
South-paw, fight with the left like old fascists
Throw shots from close angles
Have his body laid out like a snow angel
Apply pressure till they both strangled
Arms dealer sell biscuits like Bojangles
Empty clips, give 'em my all
Small fry, I got choppers that are bigger than y'all
No small talk money, just the jux and be gone
I got shooters waiting for you if you look at me wrong
Muerte

[Samples]
12 gauge's are perfect for these kind of jobs. Cause they were intimidating, they were big you know, not just a handgun
We'd kick down these doors and, put the gun to their head
I'm just like: Look, if you don't give me my money... then I'm gonna hurt you. A lot of times I didn't even need the money. I just did it because, this just gave me this f*cking euphoric feeling and I was addicted

[Verse 2: ILL Bill]
Satan laughs as you eternally rot
Young Baloff with the burgundy snot
You get surgically shot
Drive-by you in a cloud of that purpley pot
Can you see with your eyes wide shut? Certainly not
And we all gon' die some day - slowly we rot
Shooters might go get your funeral shot ock
So choose wise who you keep within the circle of trust
Tucked the swammy in the gut
Tommy hand me the blunt
Speed forth like Z York in the green orb
Swing swords, careen towards enemy hordes
Tear the face off my enemy's corpse
Mob through heavenly armed
The cause when these heavy metal songs are born
Standing on a cliff harnessing the source of the Ark
Past the banana-clip architects tortured in war
Eye-patches on crisis actors
Unrecognizable accents on ISIS-captives
Practice survival tactics

[Samples]
Cut around your face. Rip your scalp, it hang down. Rip your face off. And then put a mirror, in front of you. See if you can get a real good look at your self. Then cut your di*k and your balls off

[Verse 3: Goretex]
Medina Arafat, return to the martyr's dream
My squad gleams like October in the arts of fiends
Cause Tuddy cooked a whole corpse until the barren clean
Magazine melt your face away, it's guaranteed
Roy DeMeo was the butcher from Flatlands
Back of the garbage truck, we kill for pellets like Pac-Man
Elegant Lou Duva body-parts in the cooler
Got shooters up in the crib smell like gauze and hot tuna
Diadoras, the fat tongues and the yeshiva clapping
Break bread, black Rabbi with the heater action
Def Leppard, pyromania, I torch and go
Rifle nut forty-odd khakis and baby scorpio
Young friend it's gore mortuary drape
Called Paz so we burn the body raw till it was Frosted Flakes
Nikkie Sixx, the black corvette from Uncensored
Stomp your head out rock corpse paint
Like Jon from Dissection

[Sample: Donald Trump]
*sniff* One of my first acts will be *sniff* to get all of the drug lords *sniff*, all of the bad ones. We have some bad, bad people *sniff* in this country that have to go out *sniff*. We're going to get them out, we're going to *sniff* secure the border *sniff*, and once the border is secure, at a later date *sniff* we'll make a determination as to the rest *sniff*. But we have some bad *sniff* hombres *sniff* here and we are going to get them out. *sniffs grunts and snorts*