He’s on point, like a church steeple/first he kisses a green lady, now he raps with black people/he’s a sci-fi hero, so you know he’s all that/his mom calls him “William” but we call him “The Shat.”
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Warren Beatty in an election and you better look out/he gives a speech and tells what it’s all about/with some rhymes that were heaven sent/and people thought we couldn’t have a black president.
Vanilla Ice at the end of his fifteen minutes/there’s a bad movie sequel, and he’s in it/that’s the type of thing for which he’d have to settle/a few years before going rap metal.
If I had a city of crime that was overrun by pagans/I’d drop a dime for dragnet, and feel smooth like Donald Fagen/And if Tom Hanks and Dan Akroyd came and did a Blues Brothers dance/I don’t think I’d catch much blame for being their biggest fans.
Once wasn’t enough/the nerds hung tough/and at the end of ninety minutes time/they capped it off with more rhymes.
When Cusack put “Tapeheads” to bed/doubt sprouted from his head like dreads/so if the movie leaves you feeling awful/might as well eat some chicken and waffles.
Before Wesley Snipes said to “bet on black”/And the IRS said “we want our taxes back”/He had a movie about a sport/That’s played on a field – not a court/Where men in tight pants show off their brawn/And their coach is Goldie Hawn.