Story Behind The Song
After a freestyle battle, I was killed in a verse. This is my own resurrection and revenge against old school gangster rappers. Spiritually, it is a return to Eden and an end to original sin and our mythological fall from grace.
Song Description
Dead man rising to wreck havoc and revenge on poverty and ghetto rapsters set to Hendrix and the National Anthem with some really eerie vocals and more than just a little blood and gore. Heavy Metal feel with a slow but rapping undercurrent.
Song Length |
4:04 |
Genre |
Rap - General, Rock - Heavy Metal |
Tempo |
Medium (111 - 130) |
Lead Vocal |
Male Vocal |
Mood |
Furious, Terrible |
Subject |
Anti, Revolution |
Similar Artists |
Jimi Hendrix, Metallica |
Language |
English |
Era |
1960 - 1969 |
| |
Lyrics
Dead man rising. Tried boasting, tried coasting, tried roasting, and hosting: Died wishing I'd forseen this bloated corpse posting this post... fingers moist with the choicest of red wine blood smearing my keys as I spread this disease. (Deadpan I sing) "Ring around the corpsie. Pocket full of dope, see. Asshole to asshole we all fall down." You won't see me. You won't see me writing. You won't see me typing. You won't see these eyes gleam... words writhing. You're striving to grasp them... brain shriviling fast as you gasp your next breath in. Your breathing gets shallow. Afraid of your shadow, you'll trip on your pillow and dream you could follow. I'll paint the sky red with the blood of your fellow man. Yellow man! Swallow my SCUD and remand!!! Tell ol' Mandella to bellow my name as you fall from the frame with a thud in the sand like that thug from Iran. Your brawl with The Man, scrawled with your hand, will all but co-brand you as head of command. Picture this: Give Soldja a kiss. Then walk to the store tripping over some kids, their bodies amiss. Their blood on your hands, you pull change from your fist... convulsing with fits. Beer bottle of gas costs 2 bits. Matches are free. The boy at the counter can see that you need them. He's your friend from last evening: You sank at his grieving and drank to his leaving. You thank him, and freeze then, but just for a moment-- then drink it and vomit. Stinking you plummet: Despair has a firm grip. The air is like warm shit you're swimming within it. Skin is slick, stomache sick, shrivled prick, testes kick... bomb is lit. Click click... the sound of your glocks. Time stops. I TOLD you I'd roll you. You damn fool. You're old school. (Drool)