Controlin ya image, I finish wipin you out/
hold to ya nose, forgot whatchu was writing about/
the lighting is out, startin hardly breath/
these fumes, for you, stirrin up a snarly sneese/
now I apply, the white dye to ya eyes/
can't hold it in, you moanin tha cries/
hopin to die soon, digesting a tycoon/
leave you to implode in a sad rhyme-tune/

next weapon: An Elevator