Plaid shirted out, Mr. Murdermouth
Burn your house down, then I bounce - How I turn it out.
We earn amounts, from crowds, they always turnin out.
To witness the Mess, the gift of my flesh.
I think I'm possessed, the Devil's inside of me.
But that's a whole 'nother story entirely.
Oh the irony, nobody's signing me.
So I did my own DIY-release.
I'm a beast, you bake quiche.
You queef, you're a bitch, dog, a fake G.
I been around the block like a jog
And the ladies they stay on the cock and balls.
It's Mike Murderer, catch him in a psych cell at 33rd.
Whirlybird, rhyme Merlin certainly superb with words.
And the beat's nice too, ya punk bitch,
It's Dumpster, Fresh, and I blessed this som'bitch. Byatch!

MURDERER.®©™