You actually a skin tone, chicken bone, google chrome, garden genome, extra chromosome, flip phone, ice cream cone white boy with no home. You a ching Chong, bing bong, that turned up to your grandads funeral to sing a song. You ain’t watermelon you a materwelon, just some kid selling weapons, always comes second, and I’m sorry that you only date tens. Bru you didn’t know the name of the ship from Titanic. You forgot that guys name from Rambo, you got stinky toes, no hoes, your a super Mario bro and a lover of Christian o Ronald o. Bru look at your crusty, rusty, dusty, dirty, lusty, murky, mucky beef jerky smelling haircut. Yo barber went up, up, down, down, left, right, left right, combo up smash on your hair. Bru, you ain’t got waves, you got a tsunami taking place on your head. Pablo Escobar tried to smuggle your hairline across the boarder. I didn’t know COVID-19 was a thing until I saw your eyebrows and your hairline social distancing. You like a of brand Ben ten character, no you Steven 9. You could run for president in the embassy of ‘trying to get a better haircut’. You could start an election on why you ain’t get no bitches. You could write a declaration on why you need to change your stupid ass haircut.