I can't drive a stick, but I can drive your granny to the post office//
You know you can't handle me, your grasp on Level 3 Magic Missile is novice//
So duck and cover whilest I smother your lover's hovercraft with mayo//
You'll be begging for mercy, but while my courtesy is true, my appetite is for Scott Baio//
So allow me to strap you down and prep your dolphin for waxing//
Because killing time has arrived, and I find jigsaw puzzles relaxing//
If you can move this inertia you'll still find your rhymes are meek//
I can chug a gallon of pickle brine when you're in the kitching chopping leeks//
But I'm not booking a cooking, I'm summoning a bludgeoning//
Of classy puns setting my phasers to stun, carpetbagging your politcal running//
Daft as an Oldsmobile, your hip-hop whackness is apparent, you're just a sad clown//
As I harness the four elements to send you back to the future, packing an almanac like Doc Brown//
You're all washed up, I know you're getting hot but here comes the humdinger//
Go back to your mother or I'll demolish your private yacht with an 80's glam rock singer.