His name's Doom, they wonder just who is he, but don't worry, believe me, you'll get busy
when it comes to poetry, he's got plenty, la la la, la la la la la la
Jump him in like jump rope, double dutched and turn on the mic with a thumb stroke, subtle
touch, cuddle clutch, is this thing on like the fling with Mrs. King Kong, this spring
gone?
Sing a song of slap happy crappiness, he came to blow like it was strapped to his nappy
chest, surely I jest, the best on a wireless mic, not an eye test, yet I digress,
but why stress, try and remember when, maybe bit the tender -skinned babysitter Gwendolyn,
the type to hit and run and go tell a friend, word to Alberto Cucaracha exoskeleton, he
know, flow like interstellar wind, toe a rap, gin bites, toe into hell again, ahem, one
two check, me too, loose wreck, see through your gooseneck EQ
His name's Doom, they wonder just who is he, but don't worry, believe me, you'll get busy
when it comes to poetry, he's got plenty, la la la, la la la, la la la, hey, if I may
interject, rap these daisies like a paint up in the neck, cornier and phonier than a
play fight, take two of these and don't phone me on a late night, the beat won't fail me
with more rhymes than times he washes hands and feet daily, and all that kerosene ain't
cheap, villain been deep since a teenage creep, peep, he always was a gentleman and kept a
pen and a pencil in his mental den, right there next to where the Rolodex was before
it turned up all burnt by his solar plexus, he don't know his own strength, when he's
on the bonus like the microphone's length and width, ain't it funky like dingy socks,
feel the full effect off cassette in your bingy box
those names, doom, they wonder just who is he, but don't worry, believe me, you'll get
busy when it comes to poetry, he's got plenty, la la la, la la la, la la la,
