Eminem has made a career out of writing hurtful, violent, misandrist lyrics. His rapping about committing acts of violence towards men is despicable. How can he get away with this?
Look at your husband now. I said look at him! He ain't so hot now, is he? Fuckin' punk
There's a 4-year-old little boy layin dead with a slit throat in your living room
I slapped Garth Brooks out of his rhinestone shirt
I'll punch you in your fuckin' chest 'til your heart kicks in gear
And as for Lethal, don't forget what I said
I'm fuckin you up, punk, you're dead, don't think that I'm playin'
Sprayed Puffy with Mase
And by the way, if you see my Dad
Tell him I slit his throat, in this dream I had
Met a retarded kid named Greg with a wooden leg
Snatched it off and beat him over the fucking head with the peg
I'm doin drive-bys in tinted corvettes on Vietnam war vets
Oh, that's Dre with an AK to his face
Don't make me kill him too and spray his brains all over the place
I told you Dre, you should'a kept that thing put away
I guess that'll teach you not to let me play with it, eh?
I'll have a fuckin man raped with a band-aid over his mouth
And shove his head in a fan blade
I'm sick enough to punch a man in his face
Got his green and his gold, dashed, and climbed in his van
To steal it and seen a man holding a nine in his hand
Shot him from the bottom up
Went up in Eastland and shot a police man
Chris Kirkpatrick you can get your ass kicked
Worse than them little Limp Bizkit bastards
Grabbed Vanilla Ice and ripped out his blonde dreads
I get too blunted off of funny home grown
Cuz when I smoke out I hit the trees harder than Sonny Bono
I ripped Mystikal's voice box out, and screamed in his ear
I came in the diner with skateboarders
Placed orders
Ate hors d'œuvres
And hit the waiter with plate warmers
Burnin your contracts, punch your A&R in the face
Smash his glasses and turn em to contacts
I got your little son, you'll be receivin a call
You're lucky this little punk's still breathin' at all
I'm nauseous in this place
I need some office space
The boss is late
I wanna slap the mustache right off his face
I'm ready to go postal
I'm so close I can almost feel
His throat with no pulse when I choke him
I'm anti-Backstreet and Ricky Martin
Whose instinct's to kill 'N Sync, don't get me started
Fuckin' punk pussy, fuck you, chump
Give me a one on one, see if I don't fuck you up
I don't rap for dead presidents, I'd rather see the president dead
Hand me that 18 month old baby
To shake him up
It'll only take me a second to choke his trachea
Breaking his neck in 80 some places