Lyrics Dan Bull – Hotline Miami Rap

Hi kids, do you like violence?
Seeing people dying to the cries of the sirens?
Leaving the crime scene nothing like you arrived
Full of bile, blood, and another bunch of satisfied clients?

It all started with a call to east seventh street
I was blessed with a request that didn’t need any pleasantries
There’s no intense a feeling as dealing senseless beatings
To people who you previously wouldn’t ever meet
Talk about being dead on your feet
The second that I enter people seem to end in a heap
I guess they can’t deal well with the American heat
That makes you sweat red and then puts you forever to sleep
I guess I’m one heck of an interior decorator
Interfere with investigators, escalate a petty situation into mayhem
Exit stage left and step on the accelerator
The rest is even better but I’d better tell you later
Because I’ve got another message and it won’t wait
Someone needs me to clean the mess up in my own way
No fidgeting or messing and there’s no delay
Fifty blessings later hit the motorway and rode away

There’s one new message on your answer machine, it says:
How long do you reckon that your hands’ll be clean, it says:
It’s dirty work, but someone’s got to do the job
To go berserk and roll in the filth with the mob

Under neon lights
One phone call will decide who lives or dies

Strip lights flicker as I sip my liquor
This life’s sick and you can get by quicker
If you live like a sinner with your finger by the trigger
Or the throat of a foe so it’s goodbye Richter
Wherever I go I seem to stand alone
Whether I head to the pizza shack or hang at home
Answer to no one but that answer phone, man, I love the hang up tone
More than a saxophone solo and a bag of blow
I’m holding a bat and donning an animal mask
So you can probably tell I’ve had a problematical past
But these aren’t irrational acts, I’m enacting a task
That I’ve been handed by the man requiring absolute tact
And as a matter of fact I’m really flattered he asked me
Because I’m a one man catastrophe factory
Think the mafia’s bad, you must be having a laugh, see
The man behind each massive massacre? that’s me

There’s one new message on your answer machine, it says:
How long do you reckon that your hands’ll be clean, it says:
It’s dirty work, but someone’s got to do the job
To go berserk and roll in the filth with the mob

Under neon lights
One phone call will decide who lives or dies
‘Cause greed turns into pain and no one can escape
The crimson rain that pours over my soul
On these hot Miami nights (Whoa)
These hot Miami nights (Whoa)
‘Cause greed turns into pain and no one can escape
The crimson rain that pours over my soul
On these hot Miami nights