Lyrics:

A bottle of jack's got my manager grinning
Yeah that's me that keeps the turntables spinning
I'm counting cards and I keep on winning
I know God hates me because I'm always sinning
U don't know me blow me ho you wanna get hot
You'll get your ass blown out fucking with the Kid Rock
Eating up you suckers just the same way a beast could
Tearing through your town like mother fucking Clint Eastwood
Because I be faking the rhymes that keep you shaking
Making a lot of money but don't let me be mistaken
I never thought about climbing up the pop chart
And I don't give a fuck you can't buy my tape in K-Mart
Give me a choice between sounding like an ass wipe
Or sitting in an alley smoking 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 trying to get paid
Now check the rhyme as I climb and I co get rude
And send ya running playing pussy like Shaggy and Scoob
Because 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 you 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 selling that ass
And your styles in the past it's old and dusty
So from now on I'm calling u M.C. Crusty
Because to face me you must be blitzed or blasted
So now I'm going to drop you like a hit of acid
And when I rip you people they might stare
Because I got more rhymes than Donahue's got white hair
And yo buck won't you please be a friend
And tell your mom I want to fuck and I'll pick her up at 10