Hello, all of you dogs and cats, take a seat and groove to the sweet tunes of one Mick Foley,
A man of many talents, so jive and so wild, and who better than yours truly to tell the tale,
The first face he wore, in his backyard, to sing a song that’ll have you screaming, “holy moly!”
From exploding barb wire to thumbtacks, from flaming tables to falling atop the Hell in a Cell!
Foley baby, started this journey with me, the trippy, happy-go-lucky hippie you call Dude Love –
Only to leave me behind once he jumped off of that roof, jumped, made a fool in his backyard,
And then he felt a prickly prick of a Cactus, and whoo-boy, did he sure not have merely enough!
Scenes too grisly for this cool cat, I don’t think I’ll be able to tell, but he will, it won’t be so hard.
Yes, the pricks did sting, and they drew that blood,
Each piercing sting brought me closer to who I needed to be,
It was to be, in the magical land of WCW, when I faced a warrior in Sting.
Though he beat me, I took from him just as much, made him feel his own name.
I made it, mommy! I would yell, as crowds yelled for Mrs. Foley’s Baby Boy;
They gave me their love and I gave them my all and boy did it get bloody –
I even gave up an ear for this, thanks to the man they called Big Van Vader!
Soon, I grew tired of this shindig, leaving for the gross and violent world of ECW,
A place that knew how to throw quite a crimson-soaked pardukey!
As it turned out, it was not for Cactus Jack, it was too much.
Renounced my hardcore ways, joining a flock instead,
In alliances with Raven in the ring and his protégé Stevie Richards.
As I saw the ECW crowd hate me, hate my son, “Cane Dewey.”
That is my goddamn son! I vowed to take from those monsters who dared to make a sign…
So that we would get more of these rising stars in this godforsaken industry.
And they could have the self-destructing heathens to themselves.
I knew my mission, to shine up WWF and WCW.
Though they hated me for it, the ECW faithful claimed I sold out,
I say they settled – to hell with them! A hardcore heaven that I loved but didn’t love me back;
I knew they wouldn’t accept my soon departure for the Federation,
And so, I left New York, New York, from their evil dance to the embrace of Vince McMahon.
Rumors of my journey to the brighter place of WWF weren’t exaggerated!
My new home became a dark, dank, musty boiler room,
Draped brown clothes and a leather mask,
I would squeal and shriek, despaired in my gloom,
I, a tortured soul, inflicted pain upon myself to feel alive.
Seizing from the tall, brooding Undertaker something vital,
Aligned with Paul Bearer, wielding the urn he coveted so much.
We saw to it he’d face a ghost that would send him on a spiral!
In hellfire and brimstone, he, bathed in blazing fury would soon arrive.
As the flames licked him over, they shouted That-that’s gotta be Kane!
Joined with me and Uncle Paul, this big red machine mired in misery,
Child of rage and of pain would leave me for his brother all the same,
Back in the boiler room I went, to self-inflicted pain and isolation,
Something had to change – they’re rejecting me, and I reject myself,
Mankind was not needed here, perhaps a Dude would fix this frustration…
Whoa daddy, bet you never thought you’d see me again, but check it out guys and gals galore,
For the Love Machine had his own place upon his return and did so with a waggly rattlesnake!
Yeah baby, he needed a partner – didn’t want Mankind, so he got who he never faced before,
I then left the boiler room and the leather behind and I picked up the tie-dye for old time’s sake!
“Yowza!” I exclaimed in joy as we maintained the titles, stuck together through thick and thin,
Despite his grizzly hesitance – we were a pair made in heaven, the Stone ‘N’ Love Connection!
Yes, that name wouldn’t come to fruition, it sounds as horrible and disgusting as all sickly sin,
But that don’t matter, babydoll, as this cool cat faced Hunter Hearst Helmsley to his frustration!
But it wasn’t enough to do the job, so who took the reins?
It was none other than the man wanted dead or alive,
And so, I vowed in broken bones and madness,
Helmsley will NOT have a nice day!
Cactus Jack is back, a wild and loaded gun, bang-bang!
Soon to follow was the funky chainsaw wielder, Charlie,
Who fell to me – temporary reprieve in our destiny as it may be,
Finally, Terry – or Charlie – and I were unified in this song of violence,
Brought together in mutual style, snapping muscles and tendons.
It would have lasted, had it not been for outlaws and degenerates,
And as though it weren’t bad enough already, the crowd clamored for him,
“Austin! Austin! “Austin!” they chanted in unison.
They cared not for Cactus Jack and Chainsaw Charlie.
They called for me once upon a time, yet they don’t deserve me at all.
No longer would they see Cactus I promised them in vitriolic pain.
Fleetingly, Dude Love returned, but he doesn’t want to speak of this bleak time,
For it left him unwanted, bogged by the whims of one Mr. McMahon
Never could he do the job – sewn of a different cloth than Cactus and me,
Taking his place, for the time this leather mask once more over Foley’s face.
Different, this time out, after the deep plunge I took from insane heights,
One Mankind fell off a cage, a different one got up, putting butts in seats.
Drenched in pain, dues paid, my hands touched gold as recompense for hurt.
The rise of the Great One loomed; soon he and I would trade defeats.
Never before had I faced off with such a vicious foe until the Brahma Bull.
Snorting and charging, bucking and striking, mangling me to kingdom come,
Mrs. Foley’s Baby Boy doesn’t quit, for he has too much testicular fortitude,
No matter how The Rock would screw concuss me until I was beaten numb.
Who’d have thought that The Rock and Sock Connection would be born after?
Who could’ve foretold that brutal enemies would drip with tag team gold?
The People’s Champ, with his millions allied with Mankind and his dozens,
Together – Rocky, a rising star, and me, the man who was beaten down.
No longer though could I smell what he was cooking – so I left him behind.
Becoming target of Triple H once more, this would mark the last of Mankind.
Sorry to say, but this is the demise too, of Cactus Jack,
The main face to paint Hunter hues of crimson,
My brush being thumbtacks and barb-wire bats,
Soon, he would find there would be no way out,
In that Hell in a Cell, I would put it all on the line,
With flaming barb-wire bats and sledgehammers,
I’d soon fall through the cage, through the canvas.
Riding off into the sunset, Cactus Jack took his last drive.
Mick Foley was, for once, without a mask.
No Mankind, Dude Love, or even I.
Though still hailed a God,
We were all still Mrs. Foley’s Baby Boy.
He would call upon me twice,
In backlash and in lethal lockdown.
We will not be worn again in combat,
However proudly he wears us,
We are done, and so is he – he has nothing to prove.
Could you imagine leaving a career intact and positive?
Such is his legacy, beloved by many, including us…
This man of hardcore changed it all and made it better,
So, thank him, and remember – have a nice day!