| Song | Fast Food World |
| Artist | Promoe |
| Album | The Long Distance Runner |
| Verse 1: | |
| It's all bloody, covered in shame/ | |
| the slaughterhouse where four number's your name/ | |
| I hate this place, the urine, the pain/ | |
| they try to clean but can't get ride of the stains/ | |
| So full of life, next minute she dead/ | |
| I never could figure this blood spillin' in vain/ | |
| and they call it my work, yo the give me the blame/ | |
| for more than X million a insane killings a day/ | |
| with machine's sent straight from hell/ | |
| stabbin' your face Norman Bate's motel/ | |
| Death traps and kidnaps, cows and pigs that/ | |
| lay with open on the floor with big rats/ | |
| runnin' around, germs havin' a field day/ | |
| Bacterias all over the steelblade/ | |
| sprendin' me throught the meat industry/ | |
| I'm death I bet you're not pleased to meet me, it's... | |
| Chorus: | |
| Murder/ Suppolín' bloody meat for a fast food world/ | |
| (repet) | |
| Verse2: | |
| We keep 'em comin' no time rest, now/ | |
| Here's your knife, cut 'em up by the chest, now/ | |
| Upside down so the blood run out/ | |
| After that clean it out till the guts come out/ | |
| Now, there's no end I've been begun at eight/ | |
| seventeen days straight I'm always runnin' late/ | |
| I'm workin' overtime, but I'm underpaid/ | |
| the campany treatin' my like fuckin' slave/ | |
| Need to little cash so i can run away/ | |
| but the light at the end of tunnel ain't/ | |
| visible, I'm too tried got a stomach ache/ | |
| Can't concetrate, it must've been sumth'n I ate/ | |
| Then he suddenly slipped and he slit his wrist/ | |
| Broke his neck in the fall midst the shit and piss/ | |
| Thinkin' 'bout his little sis' and the bittre twist:/ | |
| now he's dying like campany's sins were his/ | |
| While his boss a real Mr. Slick/ | |
| dismissed the union that could've ride the risk/ | |
| but he had to have peple workin' triple shifts/ | |
| Ani't no accident call it what itrealy is, it's... | |
| Chorus: | |
| Murder/ suppolín' sickness in a fast food world/ | |
| And is a murder/ supply coruption in a fast food world/ | |
| I see murder... | |
| Verse 3: | |
| Steppin' through the golden arches/ | |
| where murder is neatly packed and heart rates/ | |
| increase with the grease smarin' on my domepice/ | |
| Extra chees ! I'm takin' that to go please/ | |
| Cloggin' up my artories, part of my wanna leaove/ | |
| My apology is simply that time is robbin' me/ | |
| Nobody see the commodites is still victims/ | |
| So is the one buyin' the shiie from hell's kitchen/ | |
| Stunblin' to the ground, pains the abdomin/ | |
| paralizin' his body like something sttabin' him/ | |
| but the doctor's found nothing wrong when examining | |
| Two days later his wife came home paniking/ | |
| Yo, she faund him on the couch with the remote control/ | |
| hangin' from his cold hand they just spoke on the phone/ | |
| The autopsy show it was the E. coli/ | |
| Bad luck with bad some meat? Nah, it's probably... | |
| Chorus: | |
| Murder/ suppolín' sickness in the fast food world/ | |
| I see murder/ | |
| supplyin' poisen in the fast food world... | |
| Outtro: | |
| Well, nothin' with the eye, mouth or teeth/ | |
| Rasta no eat/ | |
| and I'm not jokin'/ | |
| Rasta no meel/ | |
| Nothin' with the eye, mouth or teeth/ | |
| Rasta no eat/ | |
| and I'm not jokin'/ | |
| No, no, no |
| Verse 1: | |
| It' s all bloody, covered in shame | |
| the slaughterhouse where four number' s your name | |
| I hate this place, the urine, the pain | |
| they try to clean but can' t get ride of the stains | |
| So full of life, next minute she dead | |
| I never could figure this blood spillin' in vain | |
| and they call it my work, yo the give me the blame | |
| for more than X million a insane killings a day | |
| with machine' s sent straight from hell | |
| stabbin' your face Norman Bate' s motel | |
| Death traps and kidnaps, cows and pigs that | |
| lay with open on the floor with big rats | |
| runnin' around, germs havin' a field day | |
| Bacterias all over the steelblade | |
| sprendin' me throught the meat industry | |
| I' m death I bet you' re not pleased to meet me, it' s... | |
| Chorus: | |
| Murder Suppolí n' bloody meat for a fast food world | |
| repet | |
| Verse2: | |
| We keep ' em comin' no time rest, now | |
| Here' s your knife, cut ' em up by the chest, now | |
| Upside down so the blood run out | |
| After that clean it out till the guts come out | |
| Now, there' s no end I' ve been begun at eight | |
| seventeen days straight I' m always runnin' late | |
| I' m workin' overtime, but I' m underpaid | |
| the campany treatin' my like fuckin' slave | |
| Need to little cash so i can run away | |
| but the light at the end of tunnel ain' t | |
| visible, I' m too tried got a stomach ache | |
| Can' t concetrate, it must' ve been sumth' n I ate | |
| Then he suddenly slipped and he slit his wrist | |
| Broke his neck in the fall midst the shit and piss | |
| Thinkin' ' bout his little sis' and the bittre twist: | |
| now he' s dying like campany' s sins were his | |
| While his boss a real Mr. Slick | |
| dismissed the union that could' ve ride the risk | |
| but he had to have peple workin' triple shifts | |
| Ani' t no accident call it what itrealy is, it' s... | |
| Chorus: | |
| Murder suppolí n' sickness in a fast food world | |
| And is a murder supply coruption in a fast food world | |
| I see murder... | |
| Verse 3: | |
| Steppin' through the golden arches | |
| where murder is neatly packed and heart rates | |
| increase with the grease smarin' on my domepice | |
| Extra chees nbsp! I' m takin' that to go please | |
| Cloggin' up my artories, part of my wanna leaove | |
| My apology is simply that time is robbin' me | |
| Nobody see the commodites is still victims | |
| So is the one buyin' the shiie from hell' s kitchen | |
| Stunblin' to the ground, pains the abdomin | |
| paralizin' his body like something sttabin' him | |
| but the doctor' s found nothing wrong when examining | |
| Two days later his wife came home paniking | |
| Yo, she faund him on the couch with the remote control | |
| hangin' from his cold hand they just spoke on the phone | |
| The autopsy show it was the E. coli | |
| Bad luck with bad some meat? Nah, it' s probably... | |
| Chorus: | |
| Murder suppolí n' sickness in the fast food world | |
| I see murder | |
| supplyin' poisen in the fast food world... | |
| Outtro: | |
| Well, nothin' with the eye, mouth or teeth | |
| Rasta no eat | |
| and I' m not jokin' | |
| Rasta no meel | |
| Nothin' with the eye, mouth or teeth | |
| Rasta no eat | |
| and I' m not jokin' | |
| No, no, no |