Lyrics:
Bob with the beat. Mob with team
I'm wanna be next up I'm not, but I might be
All the way to the top now sight see
Sit back I'm chillin like an ICEE
the next fucking line?
Unless you into fuckin fat chicks
I ain't really judging that shit
Sayin' rip to me
Like I ain't killed you on my last shit?
How
No I ain't Bob Builder
Dick bald like a friar
I got six jobs, never tire
Catchin' buzz, umpire (You're out)
Chasin' dreams, won't retire
I don't sing
"Uncle Bob, where you at?
Yeah I know your pockets fat but I don't give a fuck 'bout that
I'm glad we family" (uh)
We a half breed family, yeah, yeah,
means I was retarded
Drank tequila
Hammered like Bob Vila in her apartment
I walked outside with Tom Knight, drunk
And we came up with this great idea
a checkered double-knit suit drove up in a large El Dorado Cadillac, leased from BOB SPREEN...
("Where the freeways meet in Downey!")
...And he laid
neckin' in my tomb
Check it out yo, I smile like Groucho Marx
I make a joke, hokey pokey, and slide by like egg yolk
Play me like a punk like Penguin
fallin
For me
It's always a movie witchu
Not NLE but I'll take a Tom wit me when I cruise
If u step up yo yard'll get stomped by my dudes
Like a football
Fat Freddy's fingers so lazily linger on the ebony and ivory keys
Seduced by a logic fuelled by the darkest liquid made from the sea
Warm it would
neckin' in my tomb
Check it out yo, I smile like Groucho Marx
I make a joke, hokey pokey, and slide by like egg yolk
Play me like a punk like Penguin
neckin' in my tomb
Check it out yo, I smile like Groucho Marx
I make a joke, hokey pokey, and slide by like egg yolk
Play me like a punk like Penguin
bitches that be wearing it well
She wanna clap, like Jingle bells
Hit up Dr. Miami for that holiday sale
Okay, first things first where's Santa
That's what
Won ki fi gbo se microphone
Kan to ge igbo mi de prepaid
Jesu rap game
They can never know my p like Jesu last name
Na Jesu face you go see for my fat
out caroling, it's too cold outside
'Cause there ain't nothing sacred, ain't nothing like old times
Just a Cynical Christmas, another year gone by
Santa
Call me bob the builder I got my tool and make auto repairs
Making death threats up on the net give you nightmares
Told this fat bitch to make my plate
Napoleon murphy brock (vocals)
Bob harris (vocals)
Johnny "guitar" watson (vocals)
Harry: (to thing-fish)
Anything you say, master! take me, I'm yours!
that "butter fly" like Mariah
Show me the money the black Jerry MaGuire
Tom Cruise on that couch if that money right
West Hollywood feels like a bunny
This rap, rap, rap, rap college
With my big fat neck I stack, stack collars
Better watch my moves it got mad, mad colors
When God made me he said,
Comic Book Guy’s kind of a fatty
Like Fat Tony and Uter with his chocolate
Looking for another? Did you
Check your pocket?
I’mma school you like Chalmers
weed that's oregano
We smoking fat
Man we smoking that indigo
Yuh
Yuh
Fly like aladdin
He feigning
He scatter
Huff puff bitch
Hit hard
Catch
you a ring
like my name's Tom Brady
I’ll pass you the rock
A long way from the bar down the block
I used to see you while you're working we’d make
disappear from the stage
Replaced by a smaller man in his mid-30s
He also appeared to be an exec
"It's time for the TGIF Annual Secret Santa Exchange" he
day job
Know the folk where it virgin Mary toast by the loaf
Thanks bob
Shh, every night at 12 they would march out from the back
With a tray
outside
Yeah, party like it's '99
Yeah, yeah, hit me baby one more time
Blueberry coupe with vanilla skies
Tom Cruise on my neck, that's vanilla ice
I
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