[Intro] [Instrumental] [Read while background music plays] [Read] Dear Tom, Hi Tom, I'm a huge fan. I've been listening to you since you dropped your first banging single man. I heard it topped. The top one thousand, man I think that's great. Did you know I named my pet gerbil after you, yeah, I call him Tommy Junior. I thought about you the other day Tommy boo when he vanished up my... wait... do you bleach your anus too, Tommy? I heard you do, that one bearded dude that looks like a guy that wants you to drop the soap in the shower, you know Tom, the guy that stands over a mirror to see his own dick? Yeah him. Is he your cousin or your twin? Or related to your trick? What's her name? The director? She does a great job too. I hardly can tell it was done by an amateur. Anyways Tom. What's new? I hope you know I'm a big fan. Oh and by the way, my name is Stan. Just kidding. Wouldn't that be wild? No. It's really Robert, but you can call me Bobby, Tommy. Did you get the birthday card I sent you? It had a cute duck on it, I put 5 bucks in it for you, I hope you get it and buy yourself a 6 inch at subway. Giggity. [End reading] [Instrumental] [Chorus] Oh shit, y’all heard the new Ronald McDonald track? Nah, my bad—the other clown, the one with the GPS face tatted like his sack. Dreads swingin’, MapQuest skin, straight disgrace, Pushin’. On that choked-out agenda, but he can’t even remember the beat he’s chasin’ on a bender. “Yo, have you heard the new MacDonald heat?” Said nobody—ever. That’s a fact on repeat. Tommy Wonder, Canadian bum, writin’ blunders on the run, Beggin’ on tape for that number-one rank, still waitin’ for the camera skank. Hard catch—they don’t hand Emmys to Mr. Clean’s forgotten step-son, Nanny-ass rapper spittin’ ‘bout Captain Kirk while his history gettin’ done. “Qualified to pilot a fucking space ship,” ya sissy—talkin’ tough from the north on Kirk, But we see the script, boy, you just readin’ da same damn lines back and forth. [Instrumental] [Bass Groove] He so marketable, Google-map face, yeah he looks adorable, For a straight deplorable, fuck-nut, headline-scannin’ for material, the clown is horrible. Skimmin’ American drama, then droppin’ that next AI banger quick written bomber For his trick director momma—pushin’ hate, no problem, that’s the script, oh look, Tommy's rapping! About the same shit. Nothing happened. [Instrumental] [Chorus] Naw, I ain’t mad at ya, Timmy Tom, Tim-Tommy, Tim Tim.. Mackin’ on Donald’s dick like it’s your new hobby on pin tryst. Did it all alone—with a phone and a dream so bold, Rappin’ ‘bout political pedos while the real ones stay untold. Did you get the memo? Your hero is a clown just like you. Drama boy, whatchu think of MTG right now? Should duet with Kid Rock—odd name, huh? Figure it out. Why the crackhead rocker put “Kid” next to his Rock? Ted Nugent his neighbor? Or just another whiskey-sippin’, Country-icon Klan-reunion, Bud-Light-cryin’, Trailer-park hero somewhere in Tennessee—brother, stop lyin’. Your tunes aren't flyin.. [Instrumental] [2nd Chorus] Let’s lay it down raw: I can’t remember the last time Anybody screamed, “OH MY GOD, TIMMY TOM DROPPED ANOTHER BANGER!” You’d rap about dog shit if it meant stayin’ in they little pea dough minds, Bad-ass rapper who rapped ‘bout dog shit—try somethin’ different, you blind GPS faced twit spittin about drama in the USA while in Canada- how are you lost, you got a map on your forehead. It’s a competition now—who sucks more, Tom or Logan Paul? One blows, the other swallows—either way, y’all ball, together, all birds of the same feather. Lay down the tracks ‘bout bein’ right, aye, Alignment with the right—swatches on your patches, what a sight. Keep tappin’ on the screen, Suno AI in the night, I might use it, but you the dude don't confuse it. You ain’t even you, that’s AI Tommy MacDonald, a spittin splittin the A I track. [Outro] Stay in your lane, lame fake-ass American clown, Rap about you, your trick, your favorite Baskin-Robbins flavor real quick, ya twitt or The crack rock you lost in the oven when you was cookin’ that scheme, Meth-amp-pedo stains on your blue jeans—still chasin’ that dream. GPS face, Ronald McDonald grin, Clown shoes on, Canadian in, real American out—end of spin.
