Crosshairs

The fat is in the fire, a fryer made of chicken wire

Gettin' sick and tired of a friggin' liar

Pelican, with some very soft mangos

A closet full of skeletons and terry cloth Kangols

Flew the coop, before you hit it, let me warn you

She did a cool hula-hoop but don't get any on you

It's all a big scam to make y'all eat pig ham

When he's on the mic he's like the triggerman, FIGJAM

DOOM, not to be confused with nobody

Especially, since the flows he used was so nutty

Never too woozy to go study

Crews got no clues like old cruddy Officer McGillicuddy

Watch your six, he got a lot of more tricks

Lyrics, bricks, on sticks sure got raw-nytics

It's a gift, don't get shot for kicks

With the same slick used to plot sick vics with

Spotted at a chick flick, holdin' hands

The other one on his swollen glans, a golden chance

That's why he kept them holes in his pants

Rollin' in a old van, is what he told his stolen fans

Is that you? True, matched from hat to shoe

Snafu, snatch any brew, LaBatt's Blue

Black Jew like that's new, patch me through

No latch attached, skat shoo, catch 22

Super, he's loaded dice nice

And overpriced, an arm and a leg; owe 'em your life or your ice

Villain, nag a grieving old hag

Snag a bragger by his mic cord and leave him holding the bag

Come clean, a bunch of dumb mean cream puffs

A keen drum machine buff, who fiends for more green stuff

Instead of starvin' there be problems by the goo gobs

A'ight, somebody's robbin' Lou Dobbs and them tonight

And he's on the next flight, moon bound

And makes it a point to stay away from the goon pound

Got some peers that's gone in the lost years

Tears and cheers, born in the crosshairs

Hey Mr. Thundercleese, what's that you were singing?

It is the Robotic Hymn of Doom

Well, I always say, nothin' livens up a Robotic Hymn of Doom

Better than an amazing pair of jugs!