Just because I write about killing,
Just because I write about death,
Just because I write about murder,
Does not mean that is my breath,

It's midnight for my brain,
It's gloomy for my mind,
Making my thoughts refrain,
And I'm a different kind,
The person always in back,
As if drugged on cocaine,
The one that slurs words,
So insane I can't explain,

Make the second better than the first,
Before long there will be no mulligans,
As you'll be riding in back of a hearse