|
|
Well he's a poet inne ?
The next time I think about flushing my head down the lav, I may well take out a loan, get a flight to LA, and administer justice to Fred Durst instead. Ideally, one could track him down on the golf course, and, yo, bust a mutherfuckin' cap in his mutherfuckin' head. Having made the silly bastard beg for his life in, y'know, rhymes. In that sense, the old canard re: " he can't rap to save his life " would take on this fairly meaningful significance. |
|
|