Another day amid the chaos
Never seem to get a day off
What can I do?
Say to the emperor "Hey, boss. Can I have a break?"
I'd get a little more than laid off
Luckily for me
Don't wanna call it a day
Ma career's flipping cool
And the tool of my trade
Is a bolt, bolt, boltgun
All in a day's work
Roll straight up
And put my tool in your face
The stink of singeing blood and steel
No words portray how good it feels
When your face flays off like an orange peel
And you taste your own flesh as your last meal
Oh, son
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun
I can tell you now that'll be no fun
So do me a small favour, old chum
And dissolve as I assault you with my boltgun
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun, boltgun, boltgun
8 foot bloody high
But I'm still a stocky guy
Pull out the heater
Like a pre-warmed banoffee pie slice
Put out hits on repeat
More than my Spotify
I stick a bolt to your brain
That's an occupied mind
Laying bodies on ice
Like a hockey fight
Time to switch out the clip
Like a copyright strike
Warhammer fan
I'd hammerfan but I can't see the hammer
Still, I'm licking shots
As if there's salt on my tequila slammer
The stink of singeing blood and steel
No words portray how good it feels
When your face flays off like an orange peel
And you taste your own flesh as your last meal
Oh, son
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun
I can tell you now that'll be no fun
So do me a small favour, old chum
And dissolve as I assault you with my boltgun
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun, boltgun, boltgun
I'm a man on a mission
Pack enough ammunition
To last 'til the last of attackers
Is lacking a living
That's a distinctive pattern
I've sank enough ships with my Kraken
That entire fleets and flotillas are flattened
Tortilla-wrap them in flak
And then snack on the shrapnel
'Til my biscuit barrel's rattling
Guess that's the way the biscuit's cracking
Picking and packing my clips
I know when to hold them
Racking up heat
I fold 'em that bloody quick
You panic and struggle
To hold on to the stuff in your colon
The stink of singeing blood and steel
No words portray how good it feels
When your face flays off like an orange peel
And you taste your own flesh as your last meal
Oh, son
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun
I can tell you now that'll be no fun
So do me a small favour, old chum
And dissolve as I assault you with my boltgun
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun
You don't wanna smoke from my boltgun, boltgun, boltgun
