Do I really have to try to burn you? Why should I bother?
You claim to be God, but you you're Mother's son, and I'm the Father.
That's right, I had sex with you mother in the back seat of a Saturn
After she came we lit a cigarette and laughed at you lyrical patterns.
It's the Second Coming of Foul, so hit your knees and grab your rosary
Your ego's so inflated that your mind should count its calories.
You remind me of the Bible in the top drawer at the Motel 8
Dusty, never read, weak spine and sedate.
So go back the the confession box, you motherfuckin' lightweight
You're the reason the church state don't want faggots to procreate.

OUT.