Letra de I Predict The Death Of Harold Camping

Have you any idea what you are Con artist, unbalanced To be predicting the end of days Preaching myths to the masses 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 assumptions He's a dispatcher of fantasy Delivering myths to the masses I know exactly what you are God speaks to me too, from afar Yes, I predict the death of one Harold Camping