conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Write me a song called Alfred’s Theme with the following description: On “Alfred’s Theme,” Em mainly talks about the changes in his life before and after the fame, brags up about his rapping skills, lyrical abilities and also mentions the coronavirus outbreak and its effects on his life.
  This is yet another self-produced song on the album. The beat is sampled from the theme music of the TV show Alfred Hitchcock Presents, originating from Gounod’s “Funeral March of a Marionette.” Make sure the lyrics are different from the original song.
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: [Verse 1]
  Before I check the mic (Check, check, one, two)
  I give it a extra swipe with a Lysol disinfectant wipe (Good evening)
  Coronavirus in effect tonight
  Antiseptics on deck, I got every type (Yeah)
  I throw on my tux, then I (Yeah) give zero fucks, then I (Yeah)
  Act like a jockstrap (Uh), cup my nuts, then I (Yeah)
  Check my ball hair (What?), make sure it's all there (Yeah)
  Then call the pallbearer (Yeah)
  It's 
  Music to Bе Murdered By
   again, why stop?
  Overkill likе a pipe bomb in your pine box
  You're all hitched to my cock (What?)
  Went from punchin' a time clock to getting my shot
  Then treated it like a cyclops
  Like it's the only one I (Only one eye) got
  And my thoughts are like nines cocked (Chk-chk)
  Every line's obscene, pervertedest mind, got the dirtiest rhyme stocked
  That's why there's parental advising (Visine) every time I drop (Eye drop)
  So throw on the theme to Alfred, I'll channel him like the Panama Canal
  But how could I get up in arms about you saying trash is all that I put out?
  Bitch, I still get the bag when I'm putting garbage out
  Plus, the potty mouth, I'm not about to wash it out
  The filthiest, so all this talk about I'm washed up, how preposterous
  Because if cleanliness is next to godliness
  It's obvious that it's impossible for me to be beside myself
  And I'm 'bout that capital like a proper noun
  Still on top the pile
  Got me sitting on numbers like a pocket dial
  Quick to call you out on your bullshit
  Don't make me give that crock a dial
  'Cause if I do it, see you later, alligator
  Made it out the trailer, then I made a vow to cater to no one
  So hate, I've gained about the same amount that's in my bank account
  So here's some more shit for you to complain about, I say the
  Bars that never slack (Yeah), but always get attacked (Yeah)
  I think they're gunnin' for me, it's startin' to feel like that
  Like I'm marked, 'cause when I rap, it's like fallin' on my back in a tar pit
  'Cause I have this target on my back (Ew, yuck)
  But if I ever double-crossed my fans and lost my Stans
  I'd probably pop five Xans (Yeah)
  Go in my garage, start my van
  Inhale as much carbon monoxide and exhaust I can
  And doze off like *snores*
  But odds like that, with these thoughts I have's like a giant getting squashed by ants
  If this is the test of time, I'd pass with flying colors
  Like I just tossed my crayons (Tossed my crayons)
  Small, medium, and large size cans
  Sanitizers of all types, brands, cost nine bands
  Which is a small price for Lysol wipes and
  If my palms brush across my pants, I wash my hands [Interlude]
  Shit, hold on, man
  Motherfuck
  Happy birthday to—
  Fuck (Shh, quiet)
  [Verse 2]
  I sit in silence in candlelit environments
  Sipping Wild Irish while getting violent
  Homicidal visions when I'm spitting like this
  But really I'm just fulfilling my wish of killing rhymes
  Which is really childish and silly, but I'm really like this
  I'm giving nightmares to Billie Eilish, I'm Diddy's side bitch
  [Interlude]
  What the fuck? Hold on, wait
  "I'm Diddy's side bitch?"
  Oh, I'm still east side, bitch
  [Verse 3]
  So 'til the E-N-D, since EPMD
  Been givin' y'all the business (Yeah), D-R-E and me (Yup)
  From the 
  MMLP
   to (Huh?) 
  MTBMB
   (Bitch)
  Bitch, it's 2020, you still ain't seein' me (Haha)
  So call me Santa Claus (Santa Claus)
  'Cause at the present (Yeah), I out-rap 'em all (Wrap 'em all), I'm at the mall
  Got your bitch in a bathroom stall, she could suck a basketball (Uh)
  Through a plastic straw (Yeah) with a fractured jaw (Damn)
  My dick is coat check (Ha), she wanna jack it off (Yeah)
  I'm so far past the bar, I should practice law
  Mentally, I'm fucked up generally (General Lee) (Duh)
  Dukes of Hazzard
   car (Yeah), get the cadaver dogs
  'Cause this is murder, murder and you'll get murked, murked
  This music 'bout to kill you, brr, brr (Brr)
  This chicken hit my phone, she said, "Chirp, chirp"
  I said, "Hut, hut, hike your skirt, skirt"
  Then go eat some worms, like the early bird
  What the fuck is love? That's a dirty word
  Make me fall in it, there's not a girl on Earth
  Or any other planet, that's a world of hurt
  And I won't buy her designer, 'cause I don't pander (Panda)
  But I'm back with so many knots, I need a chiropractor (Damn)
  And this the final chapter (Why?), 'cause I'm either frying after (Oh)
  Or they gon' give me the needle (What?) like a vinyl scratcher (DJ)
  Yeah, I'm a card, like Hallmark
  At Walmart with a small cart buying wall art
  And y'all who claim to be dogs aren't
  No bite, like a tree, mostly just all bark, arf, arf
  But y'all pickin' the wrong tree, they call me dog because I'm barking (Bar king, bark, bark, barking)
  And I got a lot, yeah, like where cars park
  I'd describe it as bowling (Why?) ball hard (Ball's hard)
  'Cause the gutter's where my mind is and when
  It's in this frame, better split like the five and the ten
  'Cause without a second to spare, I'm strikin' again
  And when the beat is up my alley, I go right for the pens (Pins)
  The cypher begins
  I'm talkin' smack like heroin, the mic's a syringe
  It's like a binge, Vicodin, I would liken to tin
  My mind is a recycling bin
  There's no place I never been
  But I never budge and I never bend
  You hyperextend on me, this game's life, it depends
  Like adult diapers for men
  Even when I'm rappin' less stellar
  It's sour grapes, I still whine, I'm the best seller (Cellar)
  Like a trey deuce, spray you as these shots penetrate through Dre's booth
  And go straight through your grapefruit, no escape route
  So you won't leave here just scathed with a few scrape wounds
  Your ass is grass and I am not gonna graze you
  But if bars were semi-mac's, I'd be the Mad Hatter
  'Cause I got so many caps, and you don't have any straps (Nah)
  So you'd be a fitted (Yeah), so don't act like you fittin' to snap
  Bitch, I'll pee (P) on your head like a Phillies hat (Haha)
  No stoppin' me, you're on a window shopping spree
  Bitch, you probably go broke at the Dollar Tree
  You never buy shit, all you ever cop's a plea
  You're always punkin' out like Halloween
  You rather opt to flee, you need to stop it, punk
  Homie, you're not a G, act like you got the pump
  And you're gonna cock the heat or get the Glock and dump
  Bitch, if you shot a tree, you wouldn't pop the trunk
  Yeah, and I'm buddies with Alfred, we about to
  Disembowel them, gut 'em and scalp 'em, yeah
  This is 'bout to be the bloodiest outcome
  'Cause we gon' make you bleed with every cut from this album
  So I'm choppin' 'em up like Dahmer
  The nut job with the nuts that are bigger than Jabba the Hutt
  I'm in the cut, and I'm out for the blood
  It's lookin' like it's that time of the month
  Carvin' 'em up with the bars while I sharpen 'em up, dog and a mutt
  I'm gonna fuck your mom in the butt with a thermometer, fuckin' phenomenal, but
  Y'all will get cut the fuck up like abdominals if you don't vámonos
  I keep droppin' like dominos, the formidable, abominable
  Stompin' a mudhole in my comp even if it's off the top of the dome
  Son 'em, get the Coppertone, I'm at the Stop and Go coppin' the Mop and Glo
  Got your stomach in knots like you swallowed rope
  You out of pocket though, like a motherfuckin' wallet stole [Outro]
  Wait, why'd the beat cut off?
  Fuck it