Check it, I used to be the goofy man you hounded
The Special Ed kid at lunchtime the bytches wouldn't stand around with
I would jack off so much back at my parents' house
And now my dikk has a permanent imprint of my hand around it
Life was lame, I had to pay money to fukk a whore
I couldn't pull a damn anorexic bytch in a tug-o-war
But then I made enough money for me to fund a tour
Now the ladies show me the goodies under their wonderbra
I'm going door to door, with foreign swords
Causing more than war slaying rappers, commercial or horrorcore
So hold your head cause I'm a torture yours, leave them open sores
promise you it'll be more than hard to ignore the gore
Hip hop's dead, and I'm the lucky savior
I'm kinda mad and I don't wanna pile up the anger
All these no-flow, gimmicky ass fired up behaviors
With wack beats and gap teeth like Tyler the Creator
hospin got a sick ass rhyme scheme