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