Mr. T
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 a** in gold, and where 'em like my neck chain
s**a, 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 friend's imaginary.
Mr. Rogers
Hi there, neighbor, 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 Brazilian
I pity your neck, Mr. Gold Chains, you've got too many
The only gold I keep is on the shelf with my Emmys
I teach the whole world full of children, I can tell
You call yourself "T" because you're too dumb to spell
Mr. T
Who you calling dumb, fool? Mr. T only needs one letter
Hello? It's for you, Bill Cosby wants his sweater
You're a forty-year-old virgin in a dumpy-a** house
I'll get Hannibal, Murdoch, and Face to stomp you out
The only p**y you've ever seen, is on Henrietta, s**a
And your Mr. McFeeley delivers a lot more than letters
So before you come to battle with your PBS crap
How 'bout I call up CPS about all them kids on your lap, fool
Mr. Rogers
Watch what you say, kids love me more than lunch
I'm not the one with my face on some whack-a** Captain Crunch
When my plan comes together you won't even see it coming
I'll chop you into four black dudes and I'll remake Cool Runnings
I'll say this once Laurence, I hope it's understood
Get right back in your van, get the f** outta my neighborhood