Death Grips
Year of the Snitch Poem
Let us remember Death
The Snitch, the child yet to be
born
Perhaps astonishing to no one
And what will be it's water
To do what it has done
And when will that be done
By something
Is it even someone

Why me
Why me
Why me
Why me
Why
Why me
Why me
Why
Why
Why me
Why
Why
Why me