Insane Clown Posse - Play My Song lyrics
[Insane Clown Posse - Play My Song lyrics]
We hit the ace, ace, ace
And love giving chase
Wicked clowns got more than some
Pie for your face with a drip, drip, drip
It's blood on the strip
Three disassembled bodies in the
Trunk of the whip
Hear the saw, saw, saw, right below your jaw
And see your own head roll
Off the table and fall
See the puck, puck, puck
Flaming arrows in your truck
And one in your lung stuck
You fucked out of luck
Play my song
(give me something I can lean on)
Well what you tryna hear
(something about murder, I got that)
Play my song, bloody, bloody, bloody
Here come the hack, hack, hack
Knives in your back
Blood down your spine all in your ass crack
With a swing, swing, swing
Your throat's whistling
The three incisions I made are
As fine as g strings it's the pap, pap, pap
From behind with a bat
And splatter every crack till
Your whole head flat beat the jab, jab, jab
I'll punch you in your flab
Drag you to the butcher shop
And chop you into slab
Every one of us got to have murder or death
To remind ourselves that we
Still have our breath
Whether it's tasteful or disgraceful
Shit, as long as everybody get a face full
Some of us root for the coppers
Others root for the killing
But everybody needs their
Murderous thrillings
Trace it back to when mankind
Was swinging from a tree
Murder's what we talking about
And always will be
And love giving chase
Wicked clowns got more than some
Pie for your face with a drip, drip, drip
It's blood on the strip
Three disassembled bodies in the
Trunk of the whip
Hear the saw, saw, saw, right below your jaw
And see your own head roll
Off the table and fall
See the puck, puck, puck
Flaming arrows in your truck
And one in your lung stuck
You fucked out of luck
Play my song
(give me something I can lean on)
Well what you tryna hear
(something about murder, I got that)
Play my song, bloody, bloody, bloody
Here come the hack, hack, hack
Knives in your back
Blood down your spine all in your ass crack
With a swing, swing, swing
Your throat's whistling
The three incisions I made are
As fine as g strings it's the pap, pap, pap
From behind with a bat
And splatter every crack till
Your whole head flat beat the jab, jab, jab
I'll punch you in your flab
Drag you to the butcher shop
And chop you into slab
Every one of us got to have murder or death
To remind ourselves that we
Still have our breath
Whether it's tasteful or disgraceful
Shit, as long as everybody get a face full
Some of us root for the coppers
Others root for the killing
But everybody needs their
Murderous thrillings
Trace it back to when mankind
Was swinging from a tree
Murder's what we talking about
And always will be