A bottle of jack's got my manager grinnin' yeah that's me that keeps the turntables spinniN' I'm countin cards and I keep on winnin' I know God hates me cuz I'm always sinnin' U don't know me blow me ho you wanna get hot you'll get your ass blown out fuckin with the Kid Rock Eatin up ya suckers just the same way a beast could tearin thru your town like muther fuckin Clint Eastwood Cuz I be fakin the rhymes that keep ya shakin' makin a lotta money but don't let me be mistaken I never thought about climbin up the pop chart and I don't give a fuck u can't buy my tape in K-Mart Give me a choice between soundin like an ass wipe or sittin in an alley smokin crack from a glass pipe I'd be as skinny as a junkie with the AIDS plague but still I'd look better than a puppet tryin to get paid Now check the rhyme as i climb and I co get rude and send ya runnin' playin' pussy like Shaggy and Scoob Cuz I'm the wrong dude to fuck with my mouth is mental and I'm a tear shit up like they did in South Central Son of a bitch I'm the son of a bitch nobody ever loved u so you're the son of a dick I'm a product of a young girl top in her class you're a product of a hooker who was sellin that ass And your styles in the past it's old and dusty so from now on I'm callin u M.C. Crusty Cuz to face me u must be blitzed or blasted so now I'm gonna drop ya like a hit of acid And when I rip ya people they might stare cuz I got more rhymes than Donahue's got white hair An yo buck won't you please be a friend And tell your mom I wanna fuck and I'll pick her up at 10Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
