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brotha lynch hung - sicc made lyrics

(devil)
yeah, the baby killa’s back up in this m-th-f-cka.
straight from the grave, the grave dug so deep way down in da garden blocc.
oh me, you can just call me manson, yeah we met before.
thought you devils don’t die, so i’m bacc up in this m-th-f-cka.
so peep the m-th-f-ckin words from a dead man, yeah.

(brotha lynch hung)
and when i pack me a gun, and oh when i was young.
i dreamed of feedin them n-gg-z, all n-gg- nutz and suflt alaton.
m-th-f-ckas get hung.
my bullet weighs a ton.
the garden blocc don.
the valley of the slum.
that cannibalistic n-gg- that got that 9 millimeter gun.
that n-gg-… that n-gg- that got them m-th-f-ckas on the run.
they thought that i was done.
but lynch is not the one, to go out from a gunshot wound.
n-gg- i’m not done that soon.
bithes they c-m, but nut just like rest.
caught one in the chest.
shoulda’ wore a vest, and oh what a bl–dy mess.
puffin off the cess.
dealin with the stress.
killin off the less fortunate.
but they trip when my 9 get sick.
them n-gg-z either die, or stay stuck up on my d-ck.
cause i’m that n-gg- that they call lynch.
i got them n-gg-z feinin for my sh-t.
i empty clips, drink and f-ck with that spliff.
and it’s the n-gg- that kill for the reason it’s the season of the sicc.
that’s why i got the urge to shoot that p-ssy, cl-t.
and kill off the infant.
so what is my intent?
to show that m-th-f-ckas livin life aint sh-t.
i gets to gettin real sicc.
and eatin bl–dy cl-t, the baby killa sh-t.
put em’ in a grave in a empty 40 ounce bottle and don’t leave a drip.
cause livin with that triple sicx,
you learn to f-ck the devil in his mouth and eat the sh-t out of his b-tch.
and i admit, my brain is kinda sick.
but now i’m like j. dahmer, i’m chewin up all the evidence.
and i killed to cure my fit, the human meat fix.
bitin till the skin rips.
that sick n-gg-, so sick, livin dead ever since.

yeah, y’all wanna know what the siccness is?
the siccness is when you hug your momma and your d-ck get hard.
or when you walk in on your baby’s momma and she’s suckin your son’s d-ck.
that’s the m-th-f-ckin siccness.
so y’all n-gg-z don’t sh-t, and don’t forget where that sh-t came from.
that n-gg- lynch.

i take my mouth up out that cot.
and trip, cause eatin dead p-ssy cl-t’ll make ya sick.
but it’s that season, so my reason is legit.
i’m havin fits, i dreamed of eatin bl–dy p-ssy cl-t’s since i was 6.
i feined for dead p-ssy on my d-ck.
i got the skitz, meanin i don’t give a sh-t about your b–tch.
that n-gg- that’s from that blocc killin up that cott, so n-gg-, sh-t.
baby bar-b-que ribs and guts and uh,
don’t let me get to deep fryin baby nuts.
sl-ts get ate out like a date, these crooked teeth hurt.
i pull that tampax string out and straight put in work.
it wouldn’t work without that sicc.
so page a n-gg- quick, so i can serve you some of that sh-t.
and have murdering your b–tch.
cause me and triple sicx,
grew up f-ckin b-tches up the gut with that 9 millimeter clip.
season of the sicc.
picture this,
p-ssy meat ripped in a pan,
full of n-gg- nuts and guts and intestines and sh-t.
i gets to chewin on that cl-t, the sicc.
they just can’t understand it.
it’s so outlandish, chewin up n-gg-z nuts to cure my fit.
the human meat fix, bitin till the skin rips.
that sicc n-gg-, so sicc, livin dead ever since.

- brotha lynch hung lyrics

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