I pity the fool who tries to step to Clubber Lang
Call me BA biceps cause I’ll crush your whole gang
Bring Tuesday, Friday and little trolly the train and watch me dip their @ss in gold
And wear em like my neck chain – SUCKA!
I’ll choke you with your own sweater sleeves
You couldn’t even beat me in the land of make believe. PUNK!
I will Mr. T bag you, in the closest cemetery
Nobody’s gonna miss you cause all your friends imaginary
Hi there neighbor
I hope you don’t mind if I change my shoes
I’ll be rocking sneakers till this battle’s over so I don’t get blood from your ugly face on my penny loafers. I like you just the way you are, one in a million, but it looks like the barber gave your head a brazillian. I pity your neck, Mr. Gold chains. You’ve got too many, the only gold I keep is on the shelf in my Emmys. I teach the whole world full of children. I can tell you call yourself T cause you’re too dumb to spell.