Fuck you spam bitches that can’t even rhyme
You all suck at it, hell you’d never have enough time 
To write decent lyrics good enough to impress
You’ll descend into madness before you’re the best

I’m the King of crazy you chicken-shit, I’m all around coo-coo
You’re a little brat getting fat off of trumoo
No boo-hoo’s from you, I’m too busy being the bomb
bringing home the bacon and porking your mom
While she gives you old McDonalds and sends you along,
Always thinking about why your dad never calls 
The least he could have done is grow a pair of balls
And get that vasectomy to prevent your cause
I guess he was just thinking menopause… 
Well too late, you’re here, or I wouldn’t be writing this song.