Say what, say what?
Speak up, dear, my hearing aid’s playing up again.
Oooohhh yesssss, that’s nice, possum
Let’s pump it, would you like a crumpet?
I’ve got strumpets under both armpits
We’re gonna party like it’s 1939
Wait, that was the Nazi party, wasn’t it…

I rock grandpa pants, high socks and sandals
A flamethrower’s needed for my birthday candles 
Unless it’s bran or prune juice, I find it inedible 
“I wear my own damn clothes… I look incredible”
A century back, I was fightin’ in trenches
These days, I blacken my hair and whiten my dentures
Pigeons attacking me, so I’m frightened of benches 
Got a bad back, fluid retention and dementia
On the pension, a daily patient of medication
I finished education before we saw Federation
My colon has swollen my prostate gland
“They see me bowlin’… they hatin’…”
My spine is hunched and I limp in pain
But I’ll still punch you and then hit you with my pimpin’ cane
So hold your presumption that I’m some senile grump
I’ll freestyle chumps and thump ya with my penile pump

(yerret) That’s old school! 
Nobody’s older than we are
(Oh yerret yerret) Sitting on the porch in my rocker 
  O.G – that’s real gangster, spelt with an E-R
Give your nan a kiss, sweetie,  better pucker
(yerret) That’s old school! 
Fogies, we roll on these whippersnappers
(Oh yerret yerret) Knitting my grandkids a parka 
Homies – in our nursing home, we’re the hippest flappers
  Best you back off, grandmotherfucker

Yo, it’s rhyme time - I bring vendetta with rage
And like a fine wine - I just get better with age
You put pen to the page, I put chalk to the slate
I’ll chew you up like some pork before my fork hits the plate
So hip, I had to replace it – I can’t feel there
Wheelchair-bound, I swear, purple perm is my real hair
Gangbanging geezers speak with a strangling wheeze
Now squeeze these dangling Ts, see, they hang to my knees
Can’t outwrite us in the slightest, I wrap tight like arthritis
Cut you short like my sight is… then shorter still, like my height is
Racing my mobility scooter, I rock the bass
You’ll spend an hour looking for a parking space
I helped Shakespeare to scribble when he was still in a crib
I spit it old school… it dribbles all on my bib
You’re too green, you mean to get it on? I’ve seen ya – quit it, son
You need a baby sitter, I’m the meanest Senior Citizen

(yerret) That’s old school! 
Nobody’s older than we are
(Oh yerret yerret) Sitting on the porch in my rocker 
  O.G – that’s real gangster, spelt with an E-R
Give your nan a kiss, sweetie, better pucker
(yerret) That’s old school! 
Fogies, we roll on these whippersnappers
(Oh yerret yerret) Knitting my grandkids a parka 
Homies – in our nursing home, we’re the hippest flappers 
  Best you back off, grandmotherfucker

You say swag, I say swank
Let’s get this started like my car’s hand crank
Once I’ve begun an anecdote, then I just keep waffling
Play cribbage in my slippers - every day I’m shuffling
A drink’ll make me tinkle, all my wrinkles have crinkles
Grown a beard for fifty years, more revered than Rip Van Winkle’s
All my single widows, put your hands up and we’ll mingle
And you’d better stand up when you are winning at Bingo
Unless you’re pregnant or crippled, raise up out your seat
Got daisy flower sheets, still blazing out this beat 
I’m at my ripest, the finest, I’ll diss Your Highness’ stylist
You got a wireless mic? I got a wireless wireless
In my Cadillac, driving 45 on the highway
Filled my bladder bag, doing a nosedive in my biplane
I’ve trekked solo to the Poles and followed every Apollo
Now I can’t swallow no solids, ho, what y’all know about Yolo?
We’re really old, yo

Nobody’s older than we are
(Oh yerret yerret) Sitting on the porch in my rocker 
  O.G – that’s real gangster, spelt with an E-R
Give your nan a kiss, sweetie, better pucker
(yerret) That’s old school! 
Fogies, we roll on these whippersnappers
(Oh yerret yerret) Knitting my grandkids a parka 
Homies – in our nursing home, we’re the hippest flappers 
  Best you back off, grandmotherfucker

Busta Rhymes? More like Busta Hip
Ice T? No thank you, the cold hurts my gums.
Waka Flocka Flame? No, I’m a Walker With A Frame
Back in my day 50 Cent could buy you a whole bushel of malted barley 
and you’d have to walk 7 nautical miles to the markets and back again 
through the snow and fog just to wait in line for a rations coupon

Old School Rap

Nib Oswald

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Michael K