I'm coming down with something.  I rarely get sick.  My stomach hurts, my sides, my back, my heads. I shiver and sweat. Maybe sime kind of stomach flu, or ebola.  Maybe it's too late.  Maybe I'm metamorphosing.  Babe, whatever shape I may take tomorrow, know that I love you, and, don't worry, I'll still be able to have sex with you.  

I wrote a punk rock-rap song for you, my love:

My sideness, it's a hurt's nest

My sideness, it's a hurt's nest.

My babeness, she's a cute's nest

My babeness, she's a cute's nest

She's a cuteness monster!

oh yea

She's a cuteness monster!

oh yea

Tell em Brotha Flava,

Yo, it's yo boy

coming at you

like the grillz of a Cadilac

My Babelicious,

she so delicious,

lips like turnips

I want to eat your face,

I want to eat yo face!

ugh!

...bitch!

She's a cuteness monster!

oh yea

She's a cuteness monster!

oh yea