Girlfriend! Your man’s over here lookin like a real serial killah. How can I tell you this without havin to tell you every time his hand accidentally brushes my boob? ‘Cause as you well know, bitches hate the messenger. I’m just sayin, this motherfucker here will smooth smoochie face you, then take his hands where his eyes wander - across the bar and down your friend’s elegant side, where he was not invited and not wanted, and preyin on a pretty face and a moment right for the killin, an opportunity for takin his aim, and just to hear his pistol cock. He mostly misses, but he keeps shootin till the wanton comes.
Tried to tell you before that he was a killah, but hey, maybe the killah is you, since it’s only his circumstance you ever talk about - the price of his car, the threads of his coat, his name on the door - you say that’s the way he’s a killah, and you don’t care what he does, as long as payday comes and he keeps the bodies buried deep in the backyard.