Pancake Breakfast
Smokin any thing that I can fit in a pipe,
slammin bottles of tussin and going fishing for pike
Never uptight my high won't permit it,
my problems life but I don't sweat it,just live it
And I'm not your average rapper,
got the same birthdate as Thomas Crapper
So bitch better watch your back,
cuz I push more power than a Marshall stack
Never the wack but oh so pesky,
some say I can't flow but muther fucker don't test me
And if you arrest me you dumb cop,
I'll find your daughter and I'll give her this cock
Kid Rock's my mother fuckin name
bitch u know me so pass the O.E.
And don't talk about takin me out,
cuz I got your girl and I'm makin her shout
Just like a piano I'm really grand,
and I got more riffs than Steely Dan
Some friends call me fly,
but most just call me when they wanna get high.
It ain't the disco Cisco Kid muther fucker,
it's the outlasting shotgun-blasting,
dick-swingin,
pussy linkin punk,
little skinny muther fucker and I'm not no hunk
But I got more rhymes than a cornfield stalks,
and I turn more tricks than Tony Hawk
Walk with a limp cuz I pimp like a pro,
and if ya dis me punk,
I'll fuck your ho
And though you think I'm nothing more than a young punk,
I'm like a hound dog chasin a chipmunk
I move quick like a cheetah,
and it ain't shit to me to just beat a
M.C. down who looks like a dick,
jumpin 'round like a homo on a pogo stick
Yo rock,
What's up?
Stop being a jerk,
and just "Give 'em an example of how a D.J. works"
Cuz it's blackjack and I got two aces,
been many places,
seen many faces
and everywhere I go people wanna jive,
so I keep my fingers on my .45
So don't cross my dusty path,
or I'll put my foot up in crusty ass
Don't front ho,
pass the J,
then hear me M.C. and watch me D.J.
to the beat y'all and I won't stop,
and I'ma rock this shit till your eardrums pop
Everybody's tryin' to get a piece of the pie,
but I don't let bullshit spoil my high
Blow Me
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,l
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.