Yo soy Don Ricardo de Clan Vejar
Anyone try to battle, te va a pagar.
Nacho, think you’re all hard when you’re stepping forth
what, now you’re like Tacho Into the Beautiful North
but ain’t nothin wrong with your rainbow connection
you just gotta quit with this land grab obsession
I’ve got a verbal gun to your head just waiting for the beat to stop
so I can pull the damn trigger and watch Iggy Pop.
Cállate Ricky, you got some splainin to do
Tischler showed me your tab, that’s a big IOU
I’ll take you up to the hills, you broke-ass Vejar
you’ll disappear from The View like your name was Joy Behar
Let’s see, there’s Santa, the Chupacabra, and the tooth fairy
Your legacy’s just like them, man, purely imaginary.
My house is historical. My name is on a cemetery.
Your rhymes are simply comical and sick like dysentery.
How are you gonna scare me with your clumsy words,
your name literally translates to a house for birds.
Your verse is perverse and I don’t fear your wrath
You’re name’s on a school where the kids suck at math.
You’ve got yourself a cemetery, that’s worth walking tall?
Let’s see how famous you are when they turn your tomb into a strip mall
We don’t have much time so let me put this to bed
We were the Dons of San Jose, you’re just the Don of the Dead
D.R.V. you so gangsta, I almost feel bad though
’cause when they ask where you from, you have to say San Diego
and seriously, man, how are you even in this battle
you’ve lost your home, your land, and all of your cattle.
Like that one guy in Upland, you’re like “where’s the beef?”
We were friends a long time, now you’re comic relief.
It took me a while but I just got why you called me Nacho
here’s a couple of bucks, go get some at Del Taco.
keeps me from posting
on a far away page
keeps me suppressing
all this ire and rage
I spend my time just keeping track
of all the wars that I’d wage
soon as they let me out of this
The mood just got sour
and someone’s ’bout to
feel the wrath of my power
quick, someone tell Matt Lauer
get the cameras here
they’ve got less than a half hour
’cause someone just offered me
a copy of “The Watchtower”
I was dumbfounded, witless
How the hell could she know
that I was Hova’s witness?
Jay-Z’s words like a right cross
from the science of sweetness —
So I lifted my voice
with a psalm of praise
and instead of a quote,
If you’re having faith problems
I feel bad for you, son.
I’ve got 99 problems
but your God ain’t one.
I usually keep track of inventory,
stocking up on the essentials
such as sugar and caffeine
and much needed pantry items
like rest, patience, and nice.
Well, an abrasive gentleman before me
missed a num lock cue and concluded
that the keyboard was busted.
Deep within my soul, I searched —
Do you have any Nice?
Fresh out, my friend.
You used it all two hours ago
and you forgot to get some more.
Low on rest and patience, too —
I suggest you find a bunker.
Impossible, I thought,
but memory betrayed me,
sneaking bitterness in my grocery bag
when I had procured some Nice.
That vengeful bastard.
Can you make some Nice instead?
Brilliant, Fukui San
but the secret ingredient is trout —
I suggest you slap him with it.
Memory has been reading IRC logs again.
Hell-o! I said your keyboard is BUSTED.
Are you deaf or just retarded?
Calm blue ocean shark infested
hiding sunken ships and bodies —
scumbag pirates. Calm, peaceful ocean.
Hey! Your keyboard is busted!
And your machines are damn slow
I am wasting my time here
and you are no help —
Sticking to his talking points.
Peaceful meadow, quiet breeze
with soft sunlight on my face
and pollen triggering allergies
with sneezing and discomfort.
Face it, kiddo — out of Nice.
Sir, I suggest knowing number lock
lest you find me busting that keyboard
by typing qwerty on the back
of your thick skull. I asked my soul
and he said I was out of Nice.
Definition of indignant stupidity.
Yes, the machines are slow
Yes, you are one ugly moron
and it seems neither of us
can remedy either situation.
Instead I walked over, pressed a key
enabling numlock and quietly stepped away,
scraping on the pantry shelf for
a grain or two — the only thing to do
when your soul runs out of Nice.
I am no life of the party,
my humor cold and dry
nobody ever seems to laugh
since my pranks go awry
I find it very difficult
to try and make amends
but as a necromancer,
I am always making friends.
I make for awkward conversation —
my interests arcane
and some folks wonder loudly
if I am legally insane.
I’m sure it wasn’t personal
when one rogue called me a witch
so I summoned forth his mother’s bones
and pimped her as my bottom bitch.
Others are more violent —
with my death in their plans
which I render as amusing
by causing them to dance
then we see who’s a pariah
for when this story ends
I’d have cast a strong enchantment
that suggests he kill his friends.