From athletes to killers, rappers to actors…
Singers and swingers, instigators of disaster.
My admiration varies, the reasons all my own…
It’s like a torch I carry; the respect is to my bones.
So it’ll be known, Edward Kemper was hardcore…
And his mom got the point…
............When he used her head as a dartboard.
See, he killed college girls in a serial way too…
But what’s a 6’9” henpecked mama’s boy to do?
Cept lash out at the world; give it a wound like Nicole got…
And then give justice a hurl, like Simpson and Pol Pot.
A lone shot is said to have killed JFK in Dallas…
But he was hung out to dry like Ron Jeremy’s phallus.
Neither Oswald nor Ron, really ever looked the part…
And though Lee needed help, they both perfected their art.
But see, Lee was put down, bullets from Jack Ruby…
While Ron’s still on the mound…
.......................And occasionally between boobies.
And when it comes to movies, the elite and good…
I kinda tend to worship the one and only Eastwood.
Dirty as Callahan, gunning as No Name or Munney…
Coaching Baby’s worth millions or with an ape actin funny.
Clint’s The Man twice over; shit…even three or four…
So I know I’ll cry when he dies and can’t make films anymore.
Then there’s the whore, the one never respected…
I can’t say I did either, except as a kid needing sex ed.
Then she’s a godsend, an angel willing to do it all…
A temporary friend…
.............Who’ll leave you chilling with empty balls.
And curtain calls, I was sad to see em come from T…
Cuz that Ice cold rapper is the one who inspired me.
Now on TV, he moved on as horizons broadened…
But when I recall his raps, I recall the most hardened.
I’m starvin for more metal; I need an icon to grow…
Into another Prince of Darkness…
..........................Cuz mine’s doing a reality show.
But I swear, if you’d cared, about rock n roll back then…
You’d wish for another Ozzy to be born and sing again.
And when I need reminding, about what courage is…
One man stands defining, always giving assurances.
I call that man The Greatest, in and out of sport…
And I was always so elated when he rhymed his retorts.
Or stood up in court, refusing to kill for country…
Bravely facing prison and a loss of career and money.
But age took over and the ring passed him by…
Slowing the greatest showman as Parkinson’s arrived.
Shaking my strength’s foundation, forcing vulnerability…
But he feels no lamentation, golden years supply tranquility.
He’s what I wanted to be, my man, Muhammad Ali…
Forever floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee.
He’d be the man I most admire, sitting above all others…
The only one I’d call Dad, the rest are more like brothers.
Strange but true, my admiration kinda scatters…
From evil to good….and to only me this matters.
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