Oh let me regress my vow. (A stale linguist)
That I make poems that flow. (A stale linguist)
Give me a chance to prove. (A stale linguist)
That I can make verse of prose. (A stale linguist)
Vote on my lay ballad. (A stale linguist)
Hope that it makes you groove. (A stale linguist)
Sucking up every word? (A stale linguist)
I hope therapy helps you. (A stale linguist)

Made all shitty rhymes.
Tirades can't condemn it.
Base, poor, bland and shite.
Don't give them no honour.

What have I wrote down here?
Soon all you might frown, yo.
Trying to hear satire? (A stale linguist)
I'm failing to jot cool jokes. (A stale linguist)
Homies hate bad humour. (A stale linguist)
Loathing my gaffes and errors. (A stale linguist)
I'm faking this Shakespeare role. (A stale linguist)
Jake desecrates humour. (A stale linguist)

Mate, abort these rhymes.
I made one more bummer.
Face it: asinine.
I grieve like my Nonna.
[repeat faintly]

This pace is clever, but pale and thin.
Bastard wrote lame lament.
How can we rate it ten when-he-sings reverent parody songs.
Ranting, we groan stamp our feet
But we snigger-when he blurts a vulgar term.
Cooking a batch of pudenda? That's vile.
His baby will write a new breed of satire.
Why do more obscene rhymes stink? Appalling and cheap.
I swear all that shit reeks, it's ill created, we long for new.

Hate all rotten rhymes.
Vile japes are all slobber.
Chase these candid lines,
Right out of this orbit!
[repeat]
Sor-ry Brattoni. Don't sing lisps:
Tho jutht a thtale linguitht.
[Incoherently melded into chorus]