Bloated with the super soaked shit
claustrophobic with the door open with the leg spread sit
a pit stop that won't stop even after the splashed beat drop
still with the lit wit with a ring of fire, no Cash just freely writ
my bunghole has got more soul then these paper stacked trolls
leading polls that earn less respect then those twirling on stripper poles
the fucking no models with their bent over roles
that leave their people outside cold
the soul is past tense for it's what they sold, by the boat load
sorry just squeezed out a floater as though it's got a motor
anyway back with the splashed back, cocked back aim
no wonder the balls stained amidst the pouring rain
of our pride being maimed from these shit labour pains
oops supposed to be no names for they are all stink covered grains
that somehow still remain in office like it's nothing but a fiddlers game
poshly trained in an all boys school getting taught how to run a train
with their cock in back came of small balls drained in tight ass gains
trying to frame their legacy from their dribbly butts that's equal to a flush back fame
of discarded brainwashed babes.