ترانه:
Dead Moon Ill Of The Dead

? The ultimate high 'Scuse me, as I kiss the sky Sing a song of six pence, a pocket full a rye Who the fuck wanna die for their culture Stalk the dead

) Get money (Get money) Get money, Ghost (Get money) Yo, we been bagging since eighteen, kid, polo rugs on with gloves on Rented cars, fronting on winning broads Gum slow, half moon

The father who sired her handed her over the crack-handed orchestra played The bride and the groom stood shoulder-to-shoulder as the ill-starred wedding

Where the fish don't bite but once a night By the cold light of the moon The horses scream the nightmares dream And the dead men all wear shoes 'Cause

always seems to splash my cock I'm dead, they just didn't leave the casket locked Pass my block I let shots drill in your spleen We're ill marines with

hung my posters in they lockers But I still got that knock that makes the people bop they head I am alive, so the "Dynasty's" not dead I have arrived,

you young people with your electical devises respect for the dead is something you will never learn until you are truely amongst the dead (maniacal laughter

the cosmic threshold, my ascent has been fraught with terror, deathsteeped, storm-hammered. (These grim mountains are strewn with the bones of the ill-fortuned dead

kiss the sky Sing a song of six pence, a pocket full a rye Who the fuck wanna die for their culture Stalk the dead body like a vulture, Tical get Blacker