You wanted flirty
But it ain’t me, babe, I’m straight up dirty
Chocolate squirty, herpes, and a case of the scurvy
I live in squalor, holler, [inaudible] dollar
My lyrics are real, disarmingly genteel, a touch puerile, like a resplendent stiletto heel slipping on a rotting banana peel
I like my strippers freshly showered
Even though I never bathe (save when it rains)
So I live with the stains and
From the tape worm that trains from my gut
To my butt
Also, full disclosure: head lice
The size of basmati rice
I’m not being lewd, just really precise.
Some other rappers are filthy, figuratively
But not me, comparatively, I speak of filth much more literally.
[gently places mic on floor]
I ordered flan in Milan from a waiter named Jean. He hailed from France, and was snowed in by chance so he decided to remain in the Italian city most renowned for its pants. When the snow melted, he felt it was time to return to his land but first wanted his velvet pants to be dealt with, or belted, just as long as they stayed by his waist when he tilted. So he went to the tailor to submit to a fitting, the old man’s fingers were flitting, and without any warning a pin pricked his skin while he was sitting. He bled through the fabric, a dramatic stain appearing seemingly as if by magic. Not even a napkin pressed firmly against the waiter’s apparently, easily, puncturable flesh could stem the intense seepage, dispensing from his appendage. The waiter expired (his pants hemmed, but not finished with all that was required) and the flan in his thoughts till the end.