[Intro]
Yeah…
They always askin’ questions they ain’t ready to hear answers to
"Where they at, Marshall?"
Fuck if I know…
I just put the words in the box, close the lid, and rap

[Verse 1]
I ain’t buryin' bodies, I’m plantin' regrets
Growin’ a garden of ghosts in the back of my head
Got a tombstone tongue, every sentence is death
Every rhyme’s like a morgue drawer pullin' out flesh
I don’t write raps, I write autopsies
Dissect pain while the pen clocks me
Evеry bar's a crime scene chalkеd neatly
Shit, even my punchlines got trauma beneath 'em
I seen angels hangin’ from extension cords
And demons dancin’ on kitchen floors
You ever cut a man off and still hear his voice
Like your fuckin' conscience got surround sound force?
I slit throats in stanzas, I strangle the beat
Like I’m handin’ out halos with blood on the sheets
They ask where the bodies go?
Right here — in every track that I leaked
In every tweet I delete
In every bottle I drink
In every shadow that peeks
From behind the mirror when I don’t blink
[Verse 2]
I’m a fuckin' problem dressed in nostalgia
A middle finger wrapped in trauma
Y’all still lookin’ for Slim Shady?
He’s dead. I left his corpse in the sauna
Cooked him slow ‘til the flesh peeled off
Then wrote "Encore" in the steam on the glass
Then laughed, ‘cause ain’t nobody last
In this game unless they eat pain like snacks
So I feast on pressure, drink gasoline
Spit fireballs, got a guillotine dream
Cut ties with God just to sharpen the blade
Now my prayers sound like murder scenes
I don't ask for peace, I ask for silence
'Cause when shit gets loud, it triggers the violence
I black out, come to, and the booth smells burnt
Like I lit a verse with a blowtorch first
I got bars buried in woods like treasure
But the map’s made of shredded suicide letters
I don’t write for pleasure
I write 'cause it’s either this or I end up in the papers with the header:
"Marshall Mathers — Found With A Glock And A Mirror, Both Full of Regret and Error"

[Verse 3]
I put corpses in chords, death in the drums
Reaper on the reverb, pain in the lungs
Every breath I take is a past life's scream
Tryna claw its way back into the bloodstream
Don’t ask where the bodies go
They don’t go — they stay
In the walls of my brain
Where the lights flicker and decay
And I walk down halls with blood on the frames
I got portraits of pain in platinum
Every award's a coffin I cracked in
Every clap, every fan, every laugh
Is another voice I hear when the night attacks
You think this shit’s just raps?
These are obituaries scribbled in caps
Typed in rage, sent through the void
Where even God hits “read” and avoids
The replies, 'cause I'm toxic
My trauma’s got a motherfuckin’ mosh pit
Inside my skull — full throttle, no caution
So don’t ask me if I lost it
I been gone
Now I just sharpen the blade before the next dawn
One cut for every critic
One verse for every sinner I mimic
Where the bodies go?
Right here in the booth, motherfucker
I’m the mortician of music — I don't bury ‘em, I use ‘em
[Outro]
They ain’t under the dirt
They ain’t floatin' in rivers
They’re in the rhythm
They’re in the fuckin' rhymes
You’ve been listenin’ to ‘em this whole time