You know, you’ll bloat up and get gas;
the horrid food will make you ill.
I have never touched nothing
of that stuff that’s shit-filled.
You know maybe, a lot of people, fallin’ down,
then tombstoned by his fries.
But the Puzder don’t care,
no, if your lipid count’s too high.
Gone man, the Puzder.
Gone man, gone ’way the Puzder.
Gourmet?! Fast crap, fat crap from Puzder man.
Yeah, he was dealin’, junk dealing was plan
with schmutz junk splashed in the pan.
And the Puzder was a monster,
claimed his wife in her pre-divorce stand.
Pays employees just nickels
to rid himself of them’s his dream.
He’d love to fire all of those warm bodies
and after that, bring in a robot team.
Gone man, the Puzder,
gone man, gone ’way, the Puzder.
He’s a gone man, gone man; the Puzder scrammed.
He was chosen by the president of this land
who then brought in a corps, including Puzder man,
who got cut from the plan
then he had to make a run,
’cause Oprah revealed the guy was
an abuser of his hon’.
Gone, scrammed, the Puzder,
gone, lammed, the Puzder.
Guy fled—gone, scrammed;
gone, lammed the junker/punch-’er/putzer man.