The round’s almost over, but you have yet to knock me out.

I hope your **** gets better, ‘cuz I’m still cleaving your clouts.

My melon’s keen like a razor. It severs meat from the bone.

I’ll leave you stranded in the desert without a place to call home.

I smoke those clones, get in the zone, and trip up your pace.

Stick a stick in your spokes, and watch you fall on your face.

You’re a disgrace to anyone claimin’ they skilled.

I’ll bore my point through your skull, even if I have to get the drill.

Son, you’ll be killed if you continue to pursue me.

I’ll stop your heart like Michael Jackson’s when he did that zombie movie.

‘Cuz I’m the judge. The jury. And I flip the switch too.

And I’ve got you strapped to a chair, poised to give you the juice.

Tie a noose around your neck, and kick you off of the table.

You might Houdini out of this, but I doubt that you’ll be able.

‘Cuz I’m handling the money, and you’re serving the food.

And I’m sorry, but you’re fired. You’ve got a bad work attitude.