You couldn't possibly be f**ing ready for me
I generated the phosphate to fuse with my old school hate
Synced to the beat decomposed f**ing smelly feet
The sh**'s far from ill it s**s dick pickle dills
Standing here at your grave with the likes of Pat Magill
Spittin' on the head stone I bet you f**in' died alone
And now a multitude snacks your f**ing bones
Failed to achieve the excellence that you'd once shown
You think to yourself deep in the ground
Are they laughing at me, what the f** is that sound?
Ready for an inoculation?
The year is 1954, and I'm at the door
With my thumbs balls-deep in a Croatian who*e
Knife fighting at the ice cream social, f**ing hardcore
You stand stunned at my sight, my beats are f**in' tight
Try to hold a candle to me but the flames are in my pee
s** my piss b**hes, or else leave with a mouth of stitches
Your arms are now replaced with some f**ing titses
The way we operate, motherf**ing inoculate
You got a cherry red Stratocaster, you're f**in' great
Now shut the f** up while I blast beats on your f**ing face
Your last moment on earth, realize you're eternally replaced
b**h