“I will eventually be right.”
Our population might be slight.
Then I can reign them in real tight.
Which is the purpose of my fight.

I’d like to get it down to two percent.
I think that’s what the founding fathers meant.
We’ll build a wall of dead, then pour cement.
To think that people said I was hell-bent!

The midlands decorated with mass graves.
The country back again to rich and slaves.
This is how stable genius behaves.
And what the wise illuminati craves.

We’ll make a profit from the skin compost.
Perhaps a restaurant where I’m the host.
I’d like to party with Jeff Epstein’s ghost.
He was a dude who loved his kids the most.

We’ll hold a party for the sheiks and kings.
They’ll all drink absinthe as prince Yeezy sings.
He’ll sing that tune about what virus brings.
I swear the dude is wearing twelve gold rings.

We’ll have a time of mourning for the dead.
I will repeat some shit that’s in my head.
Maybe I’ll take my daughter queen to bed.
When I shot Jared, that boy really bled.

The new America renamed Trump Land.
I’ll march the street leading an oompah band.
They’ll want to shake my surgically large hand.
My new protector will be Saint Paul, Rand.

Boss Mitch McConnell will help shape the nation.
He’d like to turn it into one plantation.
If they are good, the help may earn vacation.
And they will surely love our work song station.

There’ll be no army ’cause there’ll be no war.
I’ll be dictators’ lover and their whore.
When we’ve divided what we’re looking for.
Our worldwide anthem will be “Steal, Shoot, Score!”

For those who voted my ass into power.
I’m sorry that you’re mostly dead this hour.
I do hope you enjoyed the rocket shower.
Filmed home invasions where I watched you cower.

I like Miami, but New York I love.
Cherish the moment when I hung the gov.
And, then, my holiday, the Mass Grave Shove.
Once weekly, paupers can still kiss my glove.