Hey Mills, Where's my Motherfucking money?

I've been out to my mailbox three times
you said the check was in the mail
funny, the last person I said that shit to
was an insurance company I was defrauding

I mean, this is all very clever and junk,
talking about dead-ass poets
and miles of lawn and, happy sunshine
and shit but playing with my money
is like playing with my emotions

Mills I will hunt you down and
beat you with your own shoes
Mills I will crash your Christmas
party with horny Hammas militants

Mills I will sell your home phone
number to telemarketers and
explain to them how you visited Florida
once but could only dream of living
there and ooh if you only you had a
bigger penis and a gold card
with a 10,000 limit and some
boat insurance

Mills I eat babies,
I eat babies! imagine what I will
do to your shoes
right after I poison your dog
turn your son out like sailor
steal all your neighbor's
newspapers and pile them in
front of your door
like a sick trophy to your hubris

you fat aristocratic pig
stop watering your grass
for a day and turn the savings
into my refund check
or I'll punch you in the nose
like that ugly-ass baby at
your cousin's tacky wedding

give my god damn money or
I'll sell that fake-ass antique furnitue
in Mills hall to a blind
old lady and sign
your name on the receipt
I'll carve a bust of you in
deer excriment and mail it
to you third class so that
all you see when you open
it will be a portrait
of Nero as Rome burns shit-black
and you will smell
my veneal justice
peace, bitch I'm out!

Dillon