My Kung Fu beats your Kung Fu

and I don’t even train.

The only thing I have to do

is propagate a strain.

Like my Kamikaze Swazi

or webbed Blueberry Kush.

Unless your Kung Fu’s quasi

it’s a half a pound a bush.

A hundred lady harem,

that’s fifty pounds of buzz.

Then you just play the carom.

Easy is as easy does.

But easy is blase

and no longer any fun.

That stuff’s childs play.

That’s Kung Fu 101.

Now I’m busily employed

in modified genetics.

Smoke my polyploid

you’ll be screamin’ “Paramedics”.

Some think that it’s demonic

to modify God’s plan.

Try my strain, “Kryptonic”

and you’ll be my biggest fan.

Remove all genes recessive.

Duplicate the dominators.

The results are quite impressive.

You’ve made lizards alligators,

or a mouse a Kangaroo.

I’d make your brain melt,

cuz my Kung Fu’s taboo

and I hold it’s blackest belt.

All you indoor greenhouse farmers

You’re all just blowing smoke.

Just a bunch of snake charmers

whose Kung Fu’s a total joke.