He liked to tell stories
Or rather make things up
About the people he dislikes
He likes to call things out
He was always pointing fingers
He was catching all our eyes
The monkey man who slung shit like no other
He was our guy
We love him because he gets it happening
So much today is dying fast
It used to be you could
But nowadays they’ve had it so good
These kids they got it bad
If you could understand the reason
I have faith in throwing stones
Then the witchcraft, not so silly
bloodcovered face and broken bones
What I don’t get is why they worry
About the image he creates
It’s not our worry what they’re feeling
Who cares what other people say
Since when have I ever had to relate to the projection
my endorsements contending larger worlds
I didn’t come here to make friends
I came here to make money, fuck, and kill
The Haunted Typewriter 