[Sin7ven: Verse 1]

I'm a producer plus I spit and get your head moving

Writing notes and cutting samples like a med student

Kanye's right, a super hero needs a theme music

Plus their Lex Luthor, and we are here to see to it

(Hi!) I'm the Deadman, hit me up at some time

Brain food's the best pick-me-up of unlife

If you expecting rap of pixie dust and sunshine

This the wrong fucking neighborhood for you to come by

Opposition turn to smoldering piles

Once they come and get a sip of my wicked cauldron of rhymes

They feel the flavor, skills are major, I'm on my ill behavior

And like dominoes our foes are falling in line

Spit fire 'til my tongue needs and ashtray

Damn straight I'm bagging on your fraudulent campaigns

Slash veins, close your coffin and slam nails

I'm sick, you just have a cancerous fan base

[Phovea: Verse 2]

Ain’t got a leash, don’t run the streets but I own a crew

I’m not a priest or anyone to pay your homage to

Spray ya shots, relay the cops

I used to be a dorky kid who worshiped God, now I pray to Pac

Fuckin fans think I’m evil and I’m growing horns

Like the scene but different people fuck you like a hoe in porn

My woes are worn, and all the cats I know are torn

I hate to rap but Gun and Flow won’t let me close the door

So drop ya ego, making haters emo

Artists take their papers, flop it later at casinos

Imma do this my way, and I don’t care on who trends

You should pray to god and make a noose to tie your loose ends

I’m living life well and had my spin

And givin the knights all up in white hell, they mad I sin

(Yeah) Not lending any flair, I’m glad I’m in

Broluminati, it’s the ending where the bad guy wins

[Sin7ven: Verse 3]

I'm the red grim reaper with a ridiculous scythe

Comprised of microphone parts and litter I find

You picking a fight?

The fickle of mind who flow weak get cold feet, and frozen icicles for spines

You figuring why, we don't have to try to smash a veteran

Why do I size other rappers up? For casket measurements

New fans like, "oh my god, you rap like Eminem"

As if he's the only non-wack white rapper there's ever been

Settle in, the ride never end, we monstrous

Psychological warfare for conscious kids

This is bonkers, it's Mr. Sin and Cats, spitting raps

Leaving tracks wrapped in linen wrap

The critics chat, but don't affect us

When I appear with smeared hands, no, it's not even close to ketchup

I hold the mic, poke it through below your solar plexus

And spit over your heart beat as breathing slows and then stops