He has a hollow soul—
eyes always on the prize.
His hands are clammy cold;
he’s got Jerkoff Krookner eyes.
He’ll turn the tables on you
after giving advice
that’s BS; now you know:
He’s got Jerkoff Krookner eyes.

Seems to please you, then he'll squeeze you.
In the end he will unease you.
It’s a snow job, a smoke-blow job
for those that he so well knows, mob.
Hangs with Cosa Nostrans and made guys,
he’s got Jerkoff Krookner eyes

Each orb is like a stone
that is devoid of life.
He’s sterile to the bone;
he’s got Jerkoff Krookner eyes.
He loves some Russians too,
even more than his wife
dad-in-law’d love to screw—
he wants Jerkoff Krookner’s prize.

He’s got no soul and he's so troll.
He is weak, always piqued, has no role.
It’s a snow job, a smoke-blow job.
he is also ho’ o’ mob.
Also hangs out with made guys
and has Jerkoff Krookner eyes.

Both will squeeze you and unease you—
In the end, might help decease you.
They’re a snow job and ho’s o’ mob
o’ Putin who says, “Do yo’ job!”
All are cold and full of lies, they’ve got Jerkoff Krookner eyes.

They’ll squeeze you,
they’ll unease you,
This diseased crew.
They’ve got Jerkoff Krookner eyes.
It’s a snow job.
a Moscow mob….
a troll's throb.
They've got Jerkoff Krookner eyes.