The Rapist

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He's got his gun and he's got his mask and a big ol' roll of duct tape

as he goes out on the prowl, looking for some hapless woman to rape.


He's driven by the utter hatred he feels, a rage just like no other,

against any female who won't pamper him precisely as did his mother.


Yes, he reacts to a life that appears bleak to him and devoid of all possible joy

by going out and throwing a tantrum like a retarded little boy.


He goes through life, we can clearly see, with the brainpower of a pigeon;

for he gives his assent to Rapism, the pussy-boy religion.


Yes, he believes in magic and fairy dust and the spirits of the genie clan,

and he believes that beating up girls and women will transform him into a man.


He doesn't dare let anyone see him; he's a coward to the core.

Less than a loser, he's not a man. He's a failure and nothing more.


So why didn't he join the adult team, why didn't he make the cut?

It's because he chose to spend all his time kissing his own butt.


The greatest of men make women laugh; the least of men make them cry.

The rapist enjoys being the latter, so why doesn't he just go and die?


He'll never do anything good, for sure, 'cause his manhood is weak and limp.

He enjoys throwing tantrums on women, 'cause he's a crybaby and a wimp.


His life is truly sad in a world that seems bleak and gritty,

so he spends all his time kissing his own ass and wallowing in self-pity.


Of all the things we can say about him, none of them is truer

than to say that this turd makes his mother look just like a sewer.


He's just too blind to clearly discern what everybody easily sees,

that he's nowhere near a man; he's just a disgusting venereal disease.


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