Rappers We Crush

Wake up fronting like I ain’t hung over.
Read the paper, discover that the Germans have annexed Grover,
Cookie, Kermie, Piggie and all the rest.
There ain’t a single domestically controlled Muppet left.
Is it a plot? Some kind of conspiracy? My coffee is cold.
There is a bitter taste to my cinnamon roll.
I venture forth into the bright American day.
My neighbor Mister Hess says “Wie gehts?” and waves, I hurry away.
Get in my Chrysler (whew), oh, the dismay!
Someone’s replaced all of my Backstreet Boys with Kraftwerk tapes.
All right, I’m freaked out, I hope it’s a joke.
I hear the ominous industrial beat of a two-stroke
engine — the Benz on my left? The Bug on my right?
Yoiks! A fleet of six Trabants encroaching behind!
At the wheel of the lead Trabi, a visage of fear!
Red and yellow eyes, black gloves gripping the steer!
And then it dawns upon me, what chance have I got?
It’s KOMPRESSOR, and he’s chosen, for crushing, MC Frontalot!

RAPPERS WE CRUSH, FINGERS TO DUST
KOMPRESSOR DIGEST VOCALS AND SPIT OUT MUSH
YOU TRY FRONT WITH RHYMES
STOLEN FROM THE JACKSON FIVE
ERASE YOUR TAPES AT NIGHT
YOU COWER FROM KOMPRESSOR MIGHT

But I don’t wanna be crushed! Buried in fear! Left for tot!
Synthesizer might, tearing the rhymes right out of my throat!
Leave my car at the light and run. I make for the park,
pursued by steel-toed jack-boots throwing sparks
as they march. And I can hear the gnashing of the yellow teeth:
DU KANNST NICHT HIDE, RAPPER GEEK.
I’m dodging German Shepherds playing frisbee with hippies,
making hair-pin turns like horror movie heroines and slipping.
Back on my feet, his breath on my neck:
it smells of baked infants and fried cheese (SCHLECHT!!).
Run! You’re sure to suffer crushing if you sit still.
Hop the chain-link to the abandoned Wienerschnitzel.
What did I do to deserve this? What was my crime?
Was it because I sampled Die Toten Hosen that one time?
And I’m reviewing my life cowered under a grease trap,
the boot-slap stepping ever closer with its click-clack.
Now he’s here... now he’s crouching down...
jaws creak open, ants start pouring out.
And just as my flesh is about to get devoured,
I wake up screaming, wrapped in the sour
sweat-stained sheets. It takes a minute to get up,
stumble to the table, read the paper, clear my head up.
Still hurts, what’d I drink all that Goldschläger for?
Business section: EM.TV bought Jim Henson Corp.