You ran over your brother with your car
After the killin', you were just chillin'
While the media had you tea partying.
College pals say you were swell,
before you blew them all to Hell,
Carnage on the web must have made you high
While Salon wished you were a Christian, white guy.
You could be free to this day,
Collecting welfare and smoking a jay
But you got the munchies, robbed the store for crunchies
And blew that poor cop away.
So tell me, Tsarnaev:
Does killing pop your boner?
you piece of shit stoner
I hope your shot-through throat whistles a tune.
There's no justification for your asshole self
(as your bloody victims looked, you tweeted 'they're cooked')
Not in Islam, or bedlam,
Your heart upon a shelf,
In prison for life, and you'll never get out
Maybe your poor father should have pulled out.
Dedicated to Amanda Palmer