I'm missing my monster team on Halloween;
my face should be painted like Mr. Gene
Simmons while I'm listening to Queen, dressed as a queen;
me and my bad boys have seen every scene; we are angry teens
exhaling green, stunting white like Charlie Sheen;
my boys' dicks hang lower than fucking green beans.
And you don't want to find us:
late night, alleyway, metal pipes, several dikes
we don't play in any way, black clubs like recording mikes.
We don't carry gats; we wear Guy Fawkes masks and ask
for our freedom back. They try to sell us smack from Afghanistan,
so I dress up like Eminem's Stan and try to play the man again.
We're going places with covered faces so they don't know who we are.
Eight masks in the car as it races past haters; shit, they know we'll go far.
I've already put my trust in every last one of these kids; I see what they do;
I've seen what they did. These aren't honors students or some prudent fucks.
Don't try us; these are the last faces you'll see if you push your luck.
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