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 10