I'm Nauseous in this place, I need some office
The boss is late, I wanna slap the mustache right off his face
I'm ready to go postal, I'm so close
I can feel his throat with no pulse when I choke him

In ten seconds I'm go in to turn into Hulk Hogan
With a cigarette in his mouth
He tell me there's no smokin'
I'm sick of this shit, it's ridiculous
All I picture is kickin' his ass
When he's taken his ashes and flickin' 'em

I'm sick of these stamps
I'm sick of lickin' 'em, sick of stickin' 'em
I'm sick of lookin' at 'em, I'm sick of 'em
Aight Mr. Mathers pick 'em up
No you pick 'em, bitch, stick 'em up

Get against the wall, senior citizens and all
I can't take this shit no more, everybody hit the floor
Get the door, close it and lock it
Put your wallets back in your pocket, I don't want dollars
Ain't none of us walkin' out of this office

Fagget, fuck you, work at the post office, fuck you
Talkin' shit to me, tellin' me to take out
The goddamn garbage, fuck you
If you're a fuckin' dick, fuck you
If you're a white rapper, fuck you
Talk shit about stretch your cool

But if you don't talk shit about stretch, fuck you
If you're a fuckin' punk, fuck you
Talk shit about me, fuck you
You wanna battle me, fuck you
I ain't got to say shit to you but fuck you