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