This is all there is, now there ain’t shit left
It’s like I’m looking in the eyes of the saint of death
(La Santa Muerte), these people fear me
I’ve seen murder, disease, it’s all near me
This is all there is, now there ain’t shit left
It’s like I’m looking in the eyes of the saint of death
(La Santa Muerte), I know you hear me
I wrote it fucked up, you see it clearly
Enter the cult of the death’s gods, traffickers and ex-cons
Skull and robe, hold the globe in outstretched palm
A revered image of truth, here with the youth
Vivid living proof spitting like El Chapo in the booth
Death is the beginning, so without fear we run towards the willing
Manufacturing murder anthems and songs of killing
Ballads of massacre, the psalms of the forbidden
Cash is the master of every broken law that is written
Burning up the abomination conjuring hatred
Virgin of the incarcerated martyrs of Satan
Persecuted like the Inquisition in Spain
Condemned, made to repent my religion of pain
Set on fire like in Salem where the witches were slain
Behind bars till I die for these bricks of cocaine
No regrets though I pray to my saints often
Holy Death, lying awake in a coffin

They say the world don’t spin without the hand of God
While them damn priest trying to get a kid to give a handjob
I guess that really means I am odd
Cause I don’t let my kids get on their knees to pray for damn slobs
And I ain’t talking about Jesus see
I’m just speaking on the cardinals, the BC
This is the crazy shit that we see
That’s why I’m grateful that the streets are the only ones that teach me
Yo, and on that note, they giving pedophiles months
While they give the homies life for dope
What kind of shit is that? That shit ain’t right though
If a grown man wanna buy the right blow
We’re like Vegas in a sense, you know it’s false hope
Instead of slot machines and card games it’s all coke
They making hustlers like us walk a tightrope
While every other fucking snake is alright though

New York is inhabited, there’s smoke in Los Angeles
Long arm of the law is broken with bandages
They call me Slaine, the La Coka evangelist
Our spoken languages provoking the scandalous
You dummies are dead, dummy, there’s a gun to your head
There’s no loyalty left, just money instead
My blood speaks the truth that none of you said
You should be fighting the power, you’re running instead
Where’s your heart at? Your bones weak
You talk loud all the time, when I’m here you don’t speak
When the heat’s on in front of you the pressure is real
You’re a bunch of fucking sheep to a messenger’s hill
I should have chapters in the Bible cause my testament’s real
I’m a product of violence and mescaline pills
Was you born to be a faggot cause it seems like it
Your life ain’t nothing like mine, you just dream like it