Mr. T vs. Mr. Rogers

Mr. T I pity the fool Who tries to step to Clubber Lang Call me BA biceps 'Cos I'll crush your whole gang Bring Tuesday, Friday, and little Trolly the train And watch me dip their ass in gold And where e'm like my neck chain Sucka! I'll choke you with your own sweater sleeves You couldn't even beat me in the land of make believe Punk! I will Mister T bag you In the closest cemetery Nobody's gonna miss you 'Cos all your friend's imaginary Mr. Rogers Hi there, neighbor Hope you don't mind if I change my shoes I'll be rocking sneakers Till this battle's over So I don't get blood From your ugly face On my penny loafers I like you just the way you are One in a million But it looks like the barber gave your head a brazilian I pity your neck, Mr. Gold chains You've got too many The only gold I keep is on the shelf with my Emmys I teach the whole world full of children I can tell You call yourself "T" because your too dumb to spell Mr. T Who you calling dumb, fool? Mr T only needs one letter Hello? It's for you Bill Cosby wants his sweater You're a forty-year-old virgin In a dumpy-ass house I'll get Hannibal, Murdoch, and Face to stomp you out The only pussy you've ever seen, is on Henrietta Sucka! And your Mr. McFeeley Delivers a lot more than letters So before you come to battle With your PBS crap! How 'bout I call up CPS about all them kids on your lap Fool! Mr. Rogers Watch what you say Kids love me more than lunch I'm not the one with my face on some whack-ass Captain Crunch When my plan comes together You won't even see it coming I'll chop you into four black dudes And I'll remake cool running I'll say this once Laurence I hope it's understood Get right back in your van, Get the fuck outta my neighborhood