(Boom!)
Shut the fuck up
Shut your mouth and shut up
1 Trait's back, so it's time to get the fuck up
(Boom!)
What's the fuck's up
'Bardi 'bout to come up
Baseball bat, yeah he gonna fuck my knees up
Where the tracks at?
Where's my money bro?
I got my axe back
I'm 'bout to kill you, yo
Chop, chop, chop down both your knees
Like some trees while you're screamin': Lombardi, please!
(Bardi please, ba-ba-bardi please)
(Lombardi please)
(Bardi please, ba-ba-bardi please)
(Where the tracks at?)
(Where's my money bro?)
(Indie rock is dead, but I'm not)
(But I'm not)
(Bu-Bu-But I'm not)
(But I'm not)
Write the songs, how hard could it be?
Write the music, this shit ain't easy
Write the songs (how hard could it be?)
I gotta write the songs (write the songs)
Can't think of shit, I dunno how to write
I used this joke on the last album, right?
I'm no Shakespeare, no Vonnegut
I don't even know what a sonnet is
Welcome to the slaughterhouse
You can't even hide at your daughter's house
You signed the contract with your blood
They suck the rest if you give 'em a dud
If you don't make him the fuckin' stacks
With sufficient raps, with ten platinum tracks
He's gonna come to your house with a baseball bat
And break both of your motherfuckin' legs in half
So you pray to the Lord to forgive your sins
So you pray to the Lord to forgive your sins
(Come on!)
(One two three, motherfucker)
