Everyone who loved you was mistaken.
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You're not pretty enough to be stupid,
Or stupid enough to be fun,
Though you write very much, it is true, kid,
We read and say "Thank God you're done."
The days you open your piehole,
Your brain falls out. Now it's on tour--
If intelligent speech is a garden
I count on your words for manure.
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I'm sad to say (Alas, it's true)
the very last thing I would do,
Is something not so nice to you.
Perchance I push you down the stair,
Or burn your necktie, pull your hair,
Or kick, quite hard, your derriere?
To harm you (prancing, painted cyst),
Last thing I do: but I insist
You bear in mind it's on my list.
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When I am doing something dumb, illegal, or immature, I will make sure to name it after you.
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Few brain cells, few brain cells,
All hard at work, all hard at work,
Some poor village's idiot,
Brains as small as a hazelnut
Barely holding your butthole shut,
With few brain cells
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