Alright, guess I’ll be the one to draw First Blood. Or maybe,
you can draw an audience to see any of your new movies.
Come out to the coast, we’ll have a few laughs, sounds sweet.
But no, I’m stuck here with these jerkweeds about to kick their ass with bare feet!
(Argyle, drop the beat!)
I’ll set it off like it’s the top of Nakatomi.
Need a fire hose to swing on you, you’re both so below me.
I haven’t stopped killing it since Karl’s brother, Tony,
and I got your detonators right here… blow me! (Oops!)
Ship your boobie traps home, Rambo,
‘cuz you’ll never take the W without the P and O.
Does your lip hang low? Does it wobble to and fro?
Can you string that shit up on your compound bow?
And lighten up, Wick, with your brooding saga.
How about a little hakuna matata, Baba Yaga?
You’ve got the trousers tapered and the watch, Bucherer.
But your acting falls flatter than the Hans… Gruber!
Leave the underground coin game to Mario Brothers.
And John, bubbe, what the fuck’s with the chest butter?
That bandolier looks heavy as shit.
I’m like this prick’s ring finger; only need one clip! (C’mon!)
I been sharp as shattered glass since the late ‘80s,
and like your late pup, I’ll leave you pushing up daisies!
Less is more, boys, that’s my advice.
You, less survival knife; you, more survival wife!
……Ooh.
I’m gonna need a dinner reservation for two.
John Wick, I’m efficient and lean.
A proficient professional killing machine.
Underworld overachiever looking dapper as I’m bucking.
Only one of us to go three chapters without sucking.
Between your elevator and the mine where you were trapped,
you’re such wieners I should call you both John Shaft.
I craft rhymes with pencils then jam ‘em in necks.
So I’m not vexed by vets flexing ‘roid-injected pecks.
Being excommunicado wasn’t more than I could handle,
so I think I can withstand an excremental ex-commando.
And this sad, broken, dad-joking popo is no foe,
for the hurt-you-oh-so-bad virtuoso. Ho ho ho–
to quivers and bows! I’m delivering blows,
And when they land, it won’t help to make fists with your toes.
Bitcoin? No. Hitcoin? Certainly!
I’ll put you two in tombs, call it cryptocurrency!
Obey your superior like good cops and soldiers.
Raven, Roy, you’re done… over!
(slow) Nothing is over! Nothing! You just don’t turn it off.
Unless… it’s one of your movies… in which case, I just turn it off! (HUH!)
(normal) When I rip off my shirt and start swinging my stick swords,
I’m hotter than the suicide girls on your switchboards.
My headband’s red but I’ve got no love for commies,
and no juice was used to produce these armies.
Your High Table rules don’t apply to this conflict.
I’ll finish you right in the lobby – mission accomplished!
McClane! South is where your marriage went.
The last tight thing you slid in was an air vent.
They used to say you were a handsome crusader.
Too bad your hairline couldn’t get saved by Steve Urkel’s neighbor. (Oh!)
I slip into the jungle, disappear like a ghost…
then DING! I hop up hot behind ya like toast!
I seek peace but I’m packing parabellum.
I was trained to be the very best soldier boy! Tell ‘em!
I’ll blast an RPG through NYPD’s guts.
Simon Says you can PSTDeez nuts!
Jesus Christ, asshole! Whattaya doing?
This is not some Saturday morning cartoon for you to ruin.
Only thing getting ruined is McClane family Christmas.
All your kids still have “decent dad” on their wishlist.
Woah! Rambo’s dropping bombs in his flows!
Did your pals in the Taliban help you write those?
Those were mujahadeen, there’s a difference!
The Taliban formed in the ‘90s when you fell off with a vengeance.
Hey! Who the fuck asked you, dog pound?
Why don’t you go lock your mouth in a hole in the ground?
(Hole! Lock!! AAAAAAHHHHH!!!!)
You’re both a funeral suit away from presentable.
I’m thinking I’m back, and I’m thinking you’re expendable!
You wanna Die Hard? Well, today’s a good day.
Let’s go, motherfuckers – Yippee-Ki-Yay!
Bon Vivant of Violet
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