Now you go hit me like this with a frying pan
Put burners in the hands, of the black man
Getta letter sayin' see ya down by peter
I wanted a brother my mother i told her
My records sell, yes sir
Got tickets peter piper
Big shit popping, i'm the man
And bang a rang to peter pan
Six-fifty, three hundred my shirt free
Second peter one three
Hardly parted or separated, we stayed faded
A dead-pan soul attributed to this kid/
But if i did it would be bigger than earl's upper lip
And sell out 'till we dig holes for homes like peter rabbit,
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