Lunch Money

Listen up, Billy Olson
I'm a drink you up like Molson
make you sing like a fat Al Jolson
grab your tits and milk 'em both, son.

'Cause you messed
with the best
I confess
it's no test
I am the real thing
you will know the hurt I bring
forget this skirt, I am the King
of your pudgy white ass
they'll put your cheeks in a cast
for six to eight weeks
and the chicks who hate geeks
will know your ass reeks
'cause you can't wash it
I'm a squash it
and I'll pound it to dough
When will I stop? I don't know
and neither will you
they'll have to put in a screw
to keep your ass from falling out your pants
when you dance
and at a glance
you'll look like Grimace in Dockers
and subliminal shockers
will spill from your sputtering lips
while I beat you to fish and chips
like your mom got it on with a Panda bear
and your big brother blows his nose in your hair.

I'm a hurt you
make your parents desert you
like they wish that they could do
like they know that they should do
like a stinky no-good shoe, shit.

I'm gonna be on you like yellow on Twinkie
I'll snap your neck with my pinkie
I'll crap your deck while I'm drinking
a Capri Sun filled with kerosene
then I'll piss on you, 'cause I'm that mean
and set you on fire for Halloween.
You'll know it's no joke
when your nose is broke
and I suppose I'll choke
you and take your toes to smoke
too and your clothes will soak through
when blood flows I'll poke you
then God knows you'll croak too.

'Cause your ass is grass
and I'm the ass-wiper
I'm hyper
I wear you like a shit-on diaper
I'm crazy like the beltway sniper
fucked up times three on crack
croaked in a bathroom heart attack...
They'll find you in a burlap sack.

Bitch, I want my lunch money back.

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