Would you like to tell me the script
Why my daughter's jersey is ripped
And her chest has handprints where gripped
Or would you rather meet my fist?

My fist is a thing that's gonna slam in your face
Your teeth will all tumble out of place
Your nose will flatten and your lips will swell
Your eyes will blacken like an oil well
And, by the way, if there's anything I've missed
It just might run into my fist

Oh, would you like to tell me the tale
Why I bailed you both out of jail
And your date was one massive fail
Or would you rather meet my boot?

My boot is a thing that I'll insert in your ass
Before I transform it into grass
I'll kick your booty up and down the halls
And then I'll plant a swift one in your balls
When fatherhood is a prospect that is moot
The likely cause will be my boot

[instrumental-first 3 lines of chorus]
Or would you rather meet my head?

My head is a thing that's bigger than a canned ham
I sometimes employ it as a ram
I'll pummel your forehead like I'm crushing nuts
Work you over with a few head butts
If that's the way that you want to end up dead
I'll introduce you to my head

And all the guys my daughter takes out
Quickly find out what it's about
So you see, there's no need to doubt
You'd better do no more than look

You could be meetin' my right hook