And even if some good ones die, fuck it, the Lord'll sort 'em.
Fashion slave, you protestin' to get in a fuckin' look book. Everything I scribble's like The Anarchist Cookbook, Look good, posing in a centerfold of Crook Book. Black on black on black with a ski mask, that is my crook look. How you like my stylin', bruh? Ain't nobody stylin', bruh. 'Bout to turn this mothafucka up like Riker's Island, bruh. Where my thuggers and my cripples and my bloodles and my brothers?. When you niggas gon' unite and kill the police, mothafuckas? Or take over a jail, give those COs hell. The burnin' of the sulfur, God damn I love the smell. Like it's a pillow torchin', where the fuck the warden? And when you find him, we don't kill him, we just waterboard him. We killin' 'em for freedom cause they tortured us for boredom. And even if some good ones die, fuck it, the Lord'll sort 'em.