Alchemisland

Come at me in Quake 3

Get it done quick, speedrun shit

I take 3 minutes to breathe

Take 3 puffs, rough, that’s one hit

Take 3 Es, no prisoners or innocents

Everyone here is guilty of sin

Papal dispensation to lay waste to all of it

It is the second Samarkind

Sinspawn, from the Sin, inna Spira

I’m looking like the stadium scenes from Akira

King Geedorah mixed with Aguirre, God’s wrath up the amazon

I ain’t been to work for 3

Scratch that 4 days gee

What the hell is wrong with me?

I wake in the morning, can’t face it anymore

I hate every fucking second, it doesn’t excite me, for sure

It used to before I hit the top and couldn’t move you

From atop the rock you stand talking zealotic prophet

So much that you offer is empty or improper

Your forehead get imprinted with my sovereigns

I make you go down in flames like Big Bopper

Tie my hair up with a bobbin then take my shirt off

Take that smirk off, I smash your face broken Smirnoff

Bottle broken across your bonce, worse pox than Bono

And he’s dodging taxes, Masonic honour roll

Don’t stop when I’m on a roll

Want a plain chicken fillet, stuffing, cheese and mayo on a white roll

Cut in half, water bottle, crisps, four euro total at the till’s tally

Wave me through because I’m wearing the right bally

Father comes from the valley where they leave you stagnant stab meet

You came to the swap meet to stab me, I swapped the box of books

For a shotgun and shot you into dog meat, dodge clean and talk mean

Fuzz are all over me, looking over my shoulder every time I’m on the street

Never been easier to pick up a piece and make your enemies fall to their knees

Any man could be the king if he’s willing to do the necessary things, most flee

At the tithes the devil levees but most are eager enough to proceed willingly

Anyone mighty come kill me, for pills, for past misdeeds, for sheer thrills

To come at a king and make his breathing quell, ill him

Spill the ink from his inkwell, expose with lead where he thinks from

Pink frond inside a whalebone lockbox, storage box of every thought

No way I’m getting got, I’m shooting up anyone who comes

Never get the drop, never make the drop myself

Christian blood not one jot that pound of flesh offer

Two for one in my shop if you try and shock me

Chopped then shot, no insult suffered

My instinct is to inflict suffering

Hit so hard your motherboard is buffering

Stuttering, less than 30 frames

I’m 4k with smooth silky sixty frames

You’re not exactly blameless, you’ve not been framed

Won’t even let a foe remove his frames, smashing them my aim

Cornea grazed, blind as Divine Comedy’s creator, more creative because

He could only see things that he shouldn’t

They shoved him to write about the underworld

Its oppressive oven heat, barren of feature

A delinquent creature thereby nests

Its web’s threads hard as boiled leather

There longer than forever

It’s H3, how can that be?

Never getting Half Life 3

Anyone saying so it’s either fantasy at hand or conspiracy 

Scanned the paragraphs, mate

Took a glance at it

No chance that’s true, you muppet