the street dancer, the claw her ass inna' face fuck-a-hunta pole prancer.
Keep reminding yo' ass like Citizens United, the Works is cleaning up like it's all red lighted. Fuck yo' containers, I spin a fat taint'r, turn her inside out like they run it at the painter's. Petri saint'ers, heat'ree maint'ers, the make'r squeal inna' heels fill'a-hole faint'ers. Shoot a blank? Not in my life time, maybe in her sprite time. Peel her back from her rack and her rest of her stack – peace out cyka fucka, time for yo' ass to sic' a trucka; don't need your fuckin' bullshit cam'in, clam'in around all day, jammin' around inna' fucka's hay, wonderin' why it is you don't pray. Now you get to see a fucka' get nasty in the bay, after all, isn't that what you been bouncin' around for, spinnin' they stay?