There's a cell-phone twit wit' bits o' shite
Where brain'd be if he were right; an amped-up keen
Is what it sounds like as it blares;
Isn't it nice that he shares; in his bean
Is coarse material that starts with farts;
A**hole's got a "log" head; IQ higher
Has a nail or a snail, even a Fox churl.

They defecated where his brain
Should be; this guy's an aural pain, a "sh*twit"; fate
Had led him to this show where sings
A group, until his hellphone rings to irritate.

Mr. Ahole's pate cannot cerebrate;
It's reductio ad abturdum, dung.
There's just horsesh*t that's stored in cranial vault.

The band has stopped because this dick
Talks to some likeshiteminded chick,
A shouting sound.
And Mr. Ahole brays and prates,
Oblivious to how he grates on all around.
He has sh*t for brains, this irritation
A wretched time is guaranteed for all,
'cause tonight "Bits o' Shite" is talking so shrill.