Dear Pat, you still ain’t called or wrote, I hope you have a chance
I ain’t mad, I just think it’s fukked up you don’t answer fans
If you didn’t want to talk to me outside your game, you didn’t have to
But you coulda signed an autograph for Matthew
That’s my little brother, man, he’s only six years old
We waited in the blisterin’ cold
For you, for four hours, and you just said no
That’s pretty shytty, man, you’re like his fukkin’ idol
He wants to be just like you, man, he likes you more than I do
