Rizzlers, sigmas, moggers, hear this tea
I come to bury Caesar not to simp for him.
The basic that men do lives after them;
The lit is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was sus:
If it were so, it was big yikes,
And cheugily hath Caesar answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—
For Brutus has skibidi rizz;
So have they all, all level ten gyatts—
Caesar understood the assignment:
But Brutus says he was Ohio;
And Brutus has skibidi rizz.
He hath brought many fanum taxes home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general mewers mog:
Did this in Caesar seem sus?
When that the poor have felched, Caesar hath ate:
Sus should be less bussin:
Yet Brutus says he was sus;
And Brutus has skibidi rizz.
You all did see that for his drip
I thrice declared him CEO,
Which he did thrice ghost: was this beige flag?
Yet Brutus says he was sus;
And, sure, he has skibidi rizz.
But here I am to speak no cap.
You all did rate his gyatt, not level nine:
What cause withholds you then, to Stan him?
O’ rizz! Thou art yote to Ohio,
And mogless felch without their gyatt. Bet;
I did rate his gyatt level ten,
And I must ghost this bougie tea.