To think that I'm battling a :'colon'ised: deformity of the back,
And then this ass-mound can't figure out why he's so whack,
My vote tally will get filled up like a glass of orange juice,
Being cannon fodder for my text record is your only real use,
And your like a boring poet, your rhymes get heavily slept on,
They're like a nightmare that ceases to end at the break of dawn.