Mr. T:
I pity the fool who tries to step to Clubber Lang!
Call me B. A. Biceps 'cause I'll crush your whole gang!
Bring Tuesday, Friday, and little Trolley the Train,
And watch me dip their ass in gold and wear 'em 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 Mr. T bag you in the closest cemetery!
Nobody's gonna miss you 'cause all your friends imaginary!
Mister Rogers:
Hi there, neighbor.
I 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 in my Emmys.
I teach the whole world full of children, I can tell.
You call yourself T 'cause you're 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 40-year-old virgin in a dumpy-ass house!
I'll get Hannibal, Murdock, and Face to stomp you out!
The only pussy cat you ever seen is on Henrietta, sucka!
And your Mr. McFeely delivers a lot more than letters!
So before you come to battle with your PBS crap,
How 'bout I call up CPS about them kids on your lap, fool!
Mister 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 Runnings.
I'll say this once, Laurence. I hope it's understood.
Get right back in your van, and get the fuck outta my neighborhood.