(feat. Thugz From da Southside)
If you don't back off, I'm k**ing myself. [x4]
[M-Child]
I think you pushed the wrong bu*ton, b**h.
I self destruct, f** the world, n***a talkin' sh**.
They call me the sh** starter of the f**ing clique.
I represent O.M., Orange Mound, b**h.
A bunch of hard-core motherf**ing lyricists.
Provided bags, bandana rags, and shoot quick.
And ride steamer, gettin' blown for the f** of it.
I'm lovin' it, tell a hater straight, "s** my dick."
And giggle in your f**ing face, 'cause you lame, mane.
And ride through your f**ing hood and do the same thing.
I test nuts when I'm high off that green and gin,
And got some gold bra** knuckles that'll bruise a chin.
They call me the M-Child, psycho f**ing kid.
I'm splittin' weaves tryin' to get a motherf**ing gig.
The sh** I did or will do to a n***a,
Really gon' leave 'em scared,
Standin' in a puddle of piss runnin' down his leg.
[M-Child] [Chorus x2]
(If you don't back off, I'm k**ing myself.) [x4]
I ain't no b**h, I ain't no hoe,
I ain't no b**h, I ain't no hoe,
Player hater you gotta go,
Player hater you gotta go,
I'm all about makin scrilla' and cookin' that green dough.
[M-Child]
I'm about stackin' grip,
I go to church 'cause I'm holy.
People ask me what the M. stands for, because they nosey.
I keep a lot of sh** to myself, keep n***as thinking,
What will he do next, when he high and when he drinking?
Don't f** around n***a, don't f** around with me,
I snap, crackle, and pop, like f**ing Rice Crispies.
You think it's a game, a motherf**ing talk show?
n***as laughin' like they ate a f**ing Tickle-Me-Elmo.
Get that grin up off you face,
Get up out your paper chase,
Make a b**h bounce that a**,
Make her buy you birthday cake.
It's a new millenium, 2000, I'm on the rise,
Better catch up, but not the kind you put on french fries.
I can make a n***a hot, make 'em catch a bloody nose.
When I hit the studio, rip tracks like panty hose.
Bring pain, cause my game is like the finger fold,
Lock down, twist 'em up, and refuse to let 'em go.
[Chorus x2]
[M-Child]
You better hang on my nig', I'm gone, I'm in a zone.
Microphone be on, better leave me alone.
Straight hard-core sh**, I'm bringin' it to your home,
And to your tape ca**ette, CDs, or headphones.
Eliminations for sure, we be comin' in a pack,
Ready to attack, open up your back with a Gat.
Lock down, close shop, fill up every crack.
I ain't givin' a n***a sh**, not even a Scooby Snack.
Yo' hater you comin' back, why you tryin' to take mine,
I'ma turn into McGruff and take a bite out of crime.
f** 'em all, 'bout one phone call, it can be done.
Take 'em out, 'cause of low self-esteem, you on the run.
Never f**ing with your kind, 'cause your kind pullin' stunts,
I'ma beat your a** like you ate my Captain Crunch.
Drag 'em through the mud,
Shoot your a** like a punk,
You only came too deep,
We bigger then Brady Bunch, n***a.