Have you any idea what you are
Con artist, unbalanced
To be predicting the end of days
Preaching myths to the ma**es
Oh God, if you do exist
Muzzle this harebrained, audacious prick
The world will sing
Go to hell, Harold Camping!
Think for yourself, don't be devoured by his fictitious a**umptions
He's a dispatcher of fantasy
Delivering myths to the ma**es
I know exactly what you are
God speaks to me too, from afar
Yes, I predict
The d**h of one Harold Camping