I’m a manic depressive//
“The Man” like Colonel Jessup//
My ass’ been reprimanded but I still don’t understand it//
Lexapro will never fix it//
I swear I’m not dyslexic//
The writings’ on the wall but this shit, it looks cryptic//
To get on my gangster, to get at my level//
Ya need a back tat of a black cat, ana’ raised fist like a bevel//
So give me the beat kick, I’ll drop the hook like a loco//
Stick my dick in to the verses, like I would in Hope Solo//
“Whoa, did he just say that he’d fuck Hope Solo?”//
“Does he know she’s 2011’s, 2002 Apolo Ohno?”//
Yeah, I fuckin’ know it, I’ma murder the rap show//
Let me say it again man: I’d murder her asshole//
Hell, I’ll say at a third time: I’d cum on her breasts//
If I’m the Johnny Drama, then she’s my Viking Quest//
But enough of that homie, enough of the chit-chat//
Enough talk of Hope makin’ my dick spikity split-splat//
These bars were a mess before I even wrote ‘em//
Are they even there? Like Chaz Bono’s scrotum//
Man, I’ll dance on this track if heshe can Dance with the Stars//
But can you even call it, if I don’t know who you are?//
Shit, I besta bounce before I act a damn fool//
My inner voice is Jules, speakin’, “Bitch, be cool.”//
