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Pimpin'

de The Plot In You

Dear Mr. Coleman I hope your fingers rot
I pray that you will be the last of your kind
This is a warning to you
Hell will seem like a ride compared to what awaits for you
That evil look you gave her, that contradicting smile
Those goosebumps swell with your perversion
He whispers: I will kill you
The sweat drops from his brow
He knows he'll have to face her father
Your old wrinkled hands and those pebbles for teeth
I hope you had a good life, now put your hands to your knees

With the TV so loud, all the neighbors will hear
Is a re-run from Seinfeld and they'll cover their ears
They will never speak your name, they will never hear your name
Dear Mr. Coleman I hope your fingers rot
I pray that you will be the last of your kind
That evil look you gave her, that contradicting smile
Those goosebumps swell with your perversion

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