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Thought I was over, huh?

Nah, I still have something to prove,

whether I'm out a tooth or knocked out cold, you better root.

A'ight, I'm hood? Fuckin' good.



Might'a made a few mistakes, but for fuck's sakes I'm back for good, I don't flake, I'm no fake, and if you try to step on me I snap back like I'm a rake. Wanna get turn up; I'll make or break ya into an earthquake. They told me if I wanted to be great, I had to break a leg, so I Kevin Ware'd it and wore out, on the ground when I swore out obscenities, lead me to a penalty, well what good is a penalty to go fix my mentality? Sell out and go on Fox TV, hosting a "reality" show? Be the next Dexter and start killing those as evil as me? I'm sure it'd be a hit as quickly as Mit was accepted into the spotlight, fully lit. I'm every cast of that show, Jackass, put into one man, with my nutsack on fire, I'm roasted nuts, aren't I now? 'Cause it seems like these motherfuckers are allergic to me, get a surgeon already! I represent Michigan, it puts the MI in Mit, I'm the face of this state and it's lakes, and while I'm writing this, I'm in the U.P., guess that's why I'm so cooky, spooky, loony, and looking like some monster, but truth be spoken? I haven't given it my all, I hadn't even awoken.



(Hook)



But would a wood pecker still knock on wood, if he would've knew I stood less than a foot away from him and stepped on him? Oh and I'm not 0.08 B.A.C., okay - I'm 0.80 and I'm B.A.C.K., back, with my jacket off the rack, I'm back at it again, out at night, by which I mean five P.M., can't see a damn thing at this time o' year in Michigan. His evil grin glistens in the middle of the AM, still making mayhem, the stake in his chest, he's even raisin', like a dried grape I'm sour as ever. And just when you think you're in the lead, he's racin' ahead of you, and in the final lap everything goes boom! I'm from hell and back like I'm playing Doom, everytime I ever say something they always assume I mean it literally, are you the loon? You wannabe nice and head highs, I need to pop your balloon, you glorified goons. Or is it when I make a joke about someone, is it too soon?



(Hook)



I'm full of action, but I ain't no puppet figure, being flung around. Instead, I wave my middle finger as I go around, I know somewhere out there, there's someone somewhere that's not proud, having their orphaned son's endorphins once tell him how evil his own mother and father were to him, to let his own grandfather eventually take him in. Then I do think back to my granddad, the best dad I ever had, and that real dad gets mad and momma gets sad, fuck you both! Coming back to me, religiously, seriously Christy? Ain't it the Mormons the ones to look down on those that orphan and oppose their own kids? And no, I don't care about Gary no more, oh now you miss Timmy? He's gone bitch, the best way to see me is if I hire you to fix my chimney, maybe then you'd finally send me one present, eh? Gift me, no? Give you a chance, fuck that. But alas, I feel like I should set aside and close the chapter, this book is alive but that was the problematic part of the frantic, schizophrenic maniac you all examine, and Mit's still back with another anthem, and not going anywhere anytime soon, and that's the damn truth. Always know that if you've done something once, there's still something to prove. ("Fuckin' good")

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