DEMONIC INTENTIONS 😈 COUNTRY LUNATIC 💯🔥

Подробнее о видео

(Welcome to Hell, bitch...)
I ain’t no rapper, I’m a death dealer.
Country Lunatic — the whiteboy soul stealer.
Run your mouth? Better run that will—
'Cause I don’t talk beef, I talk kill.

Backroad execution, black bag justice,
Shotgun blast turn your brains to custard.
No talk, just torture, zip tie lessons,
Country boy wildin’ with demonic intentions.
We don’t call 12, we call up the crows,
Put your face in the dirt, let the pinecone grow.
No court, no judge, just blood and my boots—
Lunatic born for them violent pursuits.

Catch a rat lackin’? That’s a hog tie thrill,
Drag his ass down where the moonlight kills.
Hands in a vice, teeth in a jar,
Torture your soul ‘til you blink with a scar.
This ain't rap, it’s criminal scripture,
I paint death in a trailer park picture.
Glock with a switch, blade in the hay,
Got your mama cryin' out, "Lord, he prayin’ for prey!"

White boy savage, backwoods demon,
Been off the leash since the priest caught me schemin’.
I baptize my ops in a creek full of bleach,
Then I carve their initials in the bark with a speech.
"Here lies a bitch who thought shit was sweet—
Now his name’s just ash underneath my feet."

Backroad execution, black bag justice,
Shotgun blast turn your brains to custard.
No talk, just torture, zip tie lessons,
Country boy wildin’ with demonic intentions.
We don’t call 12, we call up the crows,
Put your face in the dirt, let the pinecone grow.
No court, no judge, just blood and my boots—
Lunatic born for them violent pursuits.

Meth in the hollow, guns in the walls,
Feds tried to raid, now they buried in stalls.
I keep my revolver like a holy charm—
Six slugs of penance in my serpent arm.
Duct tape halo, angel of pain,
Reaper in Wranglers with a jug full of flame.
Cross my path and I’ll gut you slow—
Hang your soul on a cross in a field of crows.

I don't forget, I don't forgive,
I make sure your bloodline don't live.
Whole family tree get pruned with lead,
I'm the ghost that tucks your kids in bed.
I’m that whisper in your camo tent,
That “click-clack” in the woods you sent.

One shell for your lies,
Two shells for your kin,
Three for the cowards,
Four for the sins.
Five in the clip,
Six feet deep—
Better pray I don’t dig where your grandma sleep...

Backroad execution, black bag justice,
Shotgun blast turn your brains to custard.
No talk, just torture, zip tie lessons,
Country boy wildin’ with demonic intentions.
We don’t call 12, we call up the crows,
Put your face in the dirt, let the pinecone grow.
No court, no judge, just blood and my boots—
Lunatic born for them violent pursuits.

Country Lunatic — devil in the brush,
Pullin' up slow with a trunk full of hush.
Say your prayers, I don’t give no warning—
Execution style, out back by the morning.


Country Lunatic
F.O.W.B INDEPENDENT RECORDS

All music in this video is original and owned by me. I hold full commercial rights to distribute, monetize, and promote this content across all platforms. No copyrighted material was used without permission.

#countryrap #whiteboy #lunaticnation #lunaticnation4life