[Mr. T]
I pity the fool who tries to step to Clubber Lang
Call me BA biceps cause I’ll crush your whole gang
Bring Tuesday, Friday and little Trolly the train
And watch me dip their ass in gold
And wear 'em like my neck chain – SUCKA!
I’ll choke you with your own sweater sleeves
You couldn’t even beat me in the land of make believe. PUNK!
I will Mr. T bag you, in the closest cemetery
Nobody’s gonna miss you cause all your friends imaginary

[Mister Rogers]
Hi there neighbor
I hope you don’t mind if I change my shoes
I’ll be rocking sneakers 'till this battle’s over
So I don’t get blood from your ugly face on my penny loafers
I like you just the way you are, one in a million, but it looks like the barber gave your head a brazilian
I pity your neck, Mr. Gold chains, you’ve got too many
The only gold I keep is on the shelf in my Emmys
I teach the whole world full of children I can tell
You call yourself 'T' cause you’re too dumb to spell

[Mr. T]
Who you calling dumb fool?
Mr T. only needs one letter
Hello? It’s for you
Bill Cosby wants his sweater
You’re a 40 year old virgin in a dumpy ass house
I’ll get Hannibal, Murdoch and Face to stomp you out
The only pussy cat you ever seen is on Henrietta, SUCKA!
And your Mr. McFeely delivers a lot more than letters
So before you come to battle with your PBS crap
How bout I call up CPS about them kids on your lap, FOOL!