You’re stumble, mumble fumbling,
so messed up that you’re tumbling
down heights and hills and high ways –
but please steer clear of my ways.

Your noxious scent’s quite petulant,
your manners aren’t quite heaven-sent,
and your broken bones are jonesin’
with gangrene fermentosin’.

Your slack-jawed face that lacks awe
has seen the wrong side of a hacksaw
and you lost your ear right over ‘ere
and I think I can see your derriere…

Well…I’ll do God’s work and put you down
with a bullet right upon your crown.

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