...me's gonna' trace her son's murder back to me, I'm welcoming this
by then, fillies should be swallowing me deep each crack of their lips
you know who's gotta' die now, and that's why I assigned misses smith
to find her son she lost by confiding in me wild secrets kept
the treasure hunt my scepture wants to dive in, she grabs eagerly
the ummn sounds she now verberates on my leather, that'd be my skin
I only trust me', gods not yet in-tuned with my piano keys
so me's my trustee now, she trusts me now that I've found every thief
at nine eleven two thousand one to nine eleven two-one
from forbidden to woo biddin' now on whomever knelt for nut
facials from cracker whips, to front when it's your blackness risked for sums
between me' and me pure disaster hits the ones my list has shunned
and as I bring me' closer to my part in this how carcasses
are parked on me, she's all for me because now joan of arc will live
for whom she serves, the greater glory of me, her lord and master
she's minstrel blackened back, woo bid' is the anthem for assassins
under my directive fillies my direction, god, don't ask me
to have my inc. back down from how it's written from my own fancy...