Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Campaign Speech, artist - Eminem.
Date of issue: 21.10.2016
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Campaign Speech |
Jumped out of the 2nd floor of a record store |
With a Treacherous Four cassette and a cassette recorder |
In Ecuador with Edward Norton |
Witness the metamorphosis |
Of a legend growin' like an expert swordsman |
From the Hessian war and |
Hence the origin of the Headless Horseman |
Born with the endorphins of a pathetic orphan |
Endless source and reservoir |
Of extension cords in dresser drawers |
And deadbolts on the bedroom doors |
And sexual torture kits kept in a separate storage bin |
Excellent boyfriend |
Use intercourse to settle scores |
With women who have been vendettas towards men |
Dickhead is forced in 'til there’s shredded foreskin |
Reddish torn and they’re only bein' fed a portion |
Bed sores and sore shins |
Pregnant whores can get abortions |
Fetish for stickin' metal forks in, self-absorption |
Skeletor, I went to Hell and fell a floor |
A predator, I’m headed for competitors |
Better warn 'em, what I lack in tact and a set of morals |
I make up for in metaphors like a cosmetic store |
Stegosaurus, Chuck Norris with a thesaurus |
Yes, of course, a mess of warrants |
You want some? |
Come and get some, boys! |
I’m givin' Daniel Pantaleo a refresher course |
On excessive force and pressure points |
And dressin' George Zimmerman in a fluorescent orange |
Dress and four inch heels to address the court |
With a bullseye on his back, his whole chest and torso |
Or left on the doorsteps of Trayvon’s dad as a present for him |
In my present form I’m Desert Storm |
Appetite for destruction there’s no suppressant for |
Aggressive, forceful, and less remorseful in every morsel |
Unpleasant, horrible; |
hello, gorgeous! |
The rebel with devil horns just fell off the yellow short bus |
Met a contortionist, said, «When you wanna get sexual?» |
She said, «However I fit in your schedule. |
I’m flexible.» |
Expired tags on the Saturn, got Catherine Bach |
In the back in Daisy Dukes with the hazards on |
At a traffic stop gettin' harassed, sign an autograph |
For this asshole cop’s daughter |
Laugh 'cause I called her a brat on it |
He spat on it and brought it back lookin' half in shock |
Had a heart attack and dropped dead |
Started fallin' back with it |
And got slapped with a Colin Kaepernick practice sock |
One ball and half a dick, Apple Watch |
Crack front axle, walked in a Bass Pro Shop with David Hasselhoff, |
pulled Tabasco sauce out of my satchel |
Knocked over a fisherman’s tackle box and *crash sound* |
Asked if they had a laughin' stock |
That was fuckin' stupid… |
You got it twisted, all 'cause I offered this bitch |
A doggie biscuit, you call me misogynistic |
Bitch, get to massagin' this dick! |
Like spas in this bitch, slob on it with gobs of lipstick |
Got a shoppin' list for you to run some odds and ends with |
It’s not a bitch on this earth I can be monogamous with |
She’s non-existent |
Robin Thicke with a throbbin' dick on some suave and slick shit |
But I shout derogatives at bitches like fuckin' missile launches |
Misfit, blond and nitwit |
Like I’ve gone ballistic, with a frostin' tip kit |
Screamed, «I hate blondes,"and became one, I’m optimistic |
Love to start shit |
Shovin' Clark Kent’s undergarments in the glove compartment |
Of the bucket, bumpin' Bubba Sparxxx |
I’m double parkin' up at Targets, trouble 'causer, a double crosser |
Shadiest mothafucka you’ll ever come across |
Olympic gymnast, been known for some assaults |
A couple lawsuits, enough to cause a stomach ulcer |
Same damn brain scan results as Rainman’s is |
Something’s off, but when Dustin Hoffman’s |
Dressin' up in your mummy costume |
On stage dancin' to «Brain Damage,"what's the problem? |
Nothing’s wrong, the name brand is back to reclaim status |
Run the faucet, I’ma dunk |
A bunch of Trump supporters underwater |
Snuck up on 'em in Ray Bans in a gray van with a spray tan |
It’s a wrap, like an Ace bandage |
Don’t-give-a-fuck persona, to my last DNA strand |
E&J in the waistband, at the VMAs with the stagehand |
She wants kielbasa, pre-arrange an escape plan |
Three-inch blade on point, like a See-and-Say |
Consider me a dangerous man |
But you should be afraid of this dang candidate |
You say Trump don’t kiss ass like a puppet |
'Cause he runs his c&aign with his own cash for the fundin' |
And that’s what you wanted |
A fuckin' loose cannon who’s blunt with his hand on the button |
Who doesn’t have to answer to no one—great idea! |
If I was president |
Gettin' off is the first order of business |
Once I get in office |
Second thing that’ll make me happy’s walkin' up to Uncle Sam |
Naked, laughin', dick cupped in hand |
Screamin', «Fuck safe sex!» |
Throw a latex and an AIDS test at him |
Tell Congress I run this land |
And I want the rubber banned, and make it snappy |
Addiction to friction and static |
Addict who can’t escape the habit |
Continue to chase the dragon |
But as fate would have it, I walked up in major Magics |
Dressed as the maintenance man |
In a laser tag vest and a racin' jacket |
With a gauge to blast it |
And sped away in the station wagon |
Stacey Dash’s and Casey Anthony’s |
Crazy asses in the backseat |
Throwin' Stayfree pads at me |
Dead passenger in the passenger seat |
Unfasten the safety latches |
And slam on the brakes in traffic so hard |
I snapped the relocation brackets for the monster tires |
'Finna get a murder case and catch it |
Like you threw it at me encased in plastic |
And send Dylan Roof through the windshield of the Benz |
Until he spins like a pinwheel and begins feelin'… |
Like a windmiller with a thin build while his skin’s peelin' |
And skids 'til he hits a cement pillar |
Swing for the fence like Prince Fielder |
Knock it into the upper peninsula |
You wanna go against 'zilla? |
The Rap God |
When will I quit? |
Never been realer |
The in-stiller of fear, not even a scintilla of doubt |
Whose pens iller than Prince in a chinchilla |
Or Ben Stiller in a suspense thriller |
Revenge killer, avenge syllable binge |
Fill a syringe, 'til I |
Draw first blood |
Even pop shit on my pop shit, and it’s popular |
Couldn’t be more awkwarder |
Cause you’re innocence I robbed you of |
It’s my fingers that got stuck up |
Taught ya ta, not give a |
Slapstick, hockey puck |
The broad hunter with the sawed off |
Like an arm when it’s lopped off of ya |
But I’m not gonna, get the shotgun |
Or the Glock, I’m gonna opt for the ox |
Cause I’m into objects that are sharp when I shop |
And it’s not a shock, I’m such an obnoxious fucker |
The Rock Hudson of rock 'cause who would have thought |
This much of a cocksucker to go across the buttocks of Vivica Fox with a box |
cutter |
That was for 50, little slap on the wrist be warned |
I’m unrevealin' quickly |
My squabbles, I’m grappling with your time traveling with me |
Try and follow, as I wobble, relapse into history, with a flask of the whiskey |
Tip it back then I’m twisting wine bottles |
Like what happened to Chris Reeves' spine column |
That’s the plan of attack when I’m fixing my problems |
Wish my chest wasn’t having to get these rhymes off 'em |
But the fact that I have so many rappers against me mind boggles |
And why I haven’t come back on these faggots who diss me is |
More of a spectacular mystery than a fucking Agatha Christie crime novel |
But my patience is wearing thin |
Swear I been contemplatin' rubbing shit in your face 'til I smear it in |
Diss you in every lyric until you fear the pen |
And never appear again |
If you actually had fuckin' careers to end |
But then I think of Molly Qerim and I steer 'em in that direction and forget my |
ideas for them |
Molly, I’m gone off you |
Man, light some kush |
You’re my first take, I’ll nail you |
Can’t lie, I gush |
If I won you over, you would be the grand prize |
I’m entranced by your looks, come and give the Shady franchise a push |
You can get it in the can like some Anheuser Busch |
Jeans too small, least three pant sizes tush |
Mushed against your damn side, your puss |
And thighs are squished |
What kind of attires that? |
I’m ready to be rode |
Psychopath, bet you we’ll get it poppin' like a flat |
Light the match to ignite the wrath |
Got knives to slash and slice hermaphrodites in half |
Piper Chapmans might just have to picket me |
Like a scab |
Hard to describe in fact |
Startling violent perhaps |
Are things that come to mind as soon as I start spitting rhymes like that |
And you aren’t really surprised at that |
But as far as these lines I rap |
And these bars, wouldn’t dial it back if I star 69ed the track |
Why am I such a dick? |