How I am grieving each time you bray—
I wish for you the end times had begun,
’cause you scare the shit out of me; sinks, Southern son,
When recently a change did start:

Rick P., down go your numbers
Because you made a fool of yourself.
At the debate; were you smoking top-shelf?
Rick P., down go your numbers;
You sounded like you were stoned
When you intoned.

At your place out of town, there is that name*
Harkening back to the days of Jim Crow.
So you decide to play they game “I don’t know.”
But does it show what’s in your heart?

Rick P., down go your numbers;
Again you made a fool of yourself.
That name in these times? Man, you’re something else!
Rick P., down go your numbers.
Are you eternally stoned. . .
Or head of bone?

I do not think that you’re the kind
In the White House we’d want to find.
You’d best stay where you got your start.

Rick P., down go your numbers
Because you make a fool of yourself
Every time you open your mouth: what else,
Rick P., next time will come up
When it’s opened to intone?
Please stay at home.

Rick P., down go your numbers,
Rick P., smoking the numbers.