The Rebel Yell, the Kingdom Come, to promote the new Sun God of our age.
He's darker than beige, the philosophical sage, his rage will spread on the World's Stage.
The chips He stacks, with Lays, it's a rap, to pop the top, the fans that clap.
To get your fill, the Sol for Real, to rock His ice, to keep it chill.
Because it's hot, no need for a glock, to stay strapped with the keys.
The Piano Trap, the python that wraps, no need for this plastic crap.
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