M-Child - I Ain't No b**h, Ain't No Hoe lyrics

(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.