Fort Minor: Bleach (Remix)

Yo, swing the sword for the classic yearBring the noise with your hands up, slash and tearWho can, fathom asthma, dash for airSpitting on the baby bib in the plastic chairWhat's up stupid? Shoot this1-5-1 in the shot glass, Hot flashBanging on the drum, huhWe cause havoc down in Las VegasPaper trails racing Pelican Brief-casesWe outrageous, name the streets gave usYeah, we got fame, but now we heat blazersI let them all fly, 10 in the clip, 1 in the chamberThumbs up! Another bangerUntuck the flamer, dumbfuckIt's like getting hit with a dumptruckBrains and gutsMaim, cut, aim, duck, same, stuffGet you cracked up like cocaine, heat 'em upOK, I'll let a sucka's fly onceFace down, found him in his Cap'n CrunchUh, malpractice - a bang-all jamI joust rappers and track in the radar scansFlip beats for the crew like fleets and platoonsReach for the moon like Reese Witherspoon, uhDon't stop the sure-shot, the rooftop anthemBlast the gold box, cock back the cannonWhat's up partna, I got ya (what, what)Hope that spoken gunshots crack the pinataSlap, box, mouth of backwashTeeth mashed up on the asphalt, ya dig?Set the pace like a mustang, mashin'Up the stakes, who wanna cut the cake, I take cashDropped on a blood-stained mattressStop, you ain't got access, watchI'mma change my asset, Ryu and TakYou little cunts in the game, you can suck my cockLay flat on the ground don?t make a peepIf you want the stains out now, get the bleach!Get the bleachGuess who's got the rubber gloves and the bleach?Guess who's rockin every club, that's meGet so hot, you feel the buzz in the streetsKeeping it knockin', drop drop that beatGuess who got the group name on top?S.o.B. got the rap thing lockedWho want what, when, why, and what notWho got next up, Ryu and TakYeah, here it comes, all you hear is a clickBloody brains on the sand with a Miracle WhipWhile the blood keeps gushing, relish and pink mustard, huhI'mma slam till I tear it to bits 'til the bell for the recess rangOn the defense game, you feeling grilled like P.F. ChangsHopscotch on the corpse till I drop the torchAnd burn crews for their views that would rock with forceSaying, don't stop the sure-shot, the rooftop anthemBlast the gold box, cock back the cannonWhat's up y'all, we don't stall, come one, come all'Til we drop the ball likeGet the bleach, get the bleach