Masters Of Illusion - Back Up Kid lyrics

The electricity shall now be pa**ed through your body Until you are dead {*sounds of an electric chair*} [Hook: Kool Keith] Back up kid, 40 billion hundred power watts Back up kid, 40 billion hundred power Back up kid, 40 billion hundred power watts Back up kid, 40 billion hundred power [Kool Keith] You on my pubic, I tell you kid, that's on my testicles I slice that style up like big bowls of vegetables You know I'm legend though you clown man sniff and blow I got the big stage, no props for yo' small show I light your an*s up, pee upon your whole spectrum Then damage all bu*t with missiles to your girl's rectum No matter how where, with activator on your hair You could be weaved up, toes to your sleeve up ADAT's work you got static, turn your Neve up You on 4-track, tic-tac, I still wipe bu*tcrack Battle me now your cornflake style, chocolate cow You no test catnip slob runnin down your vest Master of what, your kitty styles all bu*t Incest, you settle for less Yo lick my wee-wee, your sister tried to watch me pee-pee On New Year's, panties down, drunk drinkin beers You get axed up, records get faxed up Your booty get torn your heiny's all waxed up [Hook] - 2X [Kool Keith] I see MC's waste time and vinyl, your point is final You trapped in the cage and now pregnant by a green rhino Lubriderm is bond the cage it's still Octagon Your girl in tights, panties made of chiffon Like Ted Bundy and Kemper, I burn your wig this winter No matter how hard you are, I still paint that back Then draw some pictures of Space Ghost on yo' a**crack With Scooby Doo, Fred and Wilma watchin Dino doo-doo Your style is no flake, them beige boots are kinda weak You s** nuts and lick my balls everytime I speak You at the Apollo, you wack easy act to follow You get no props, for skirts s**in Charms pops You on my penis, still wearin shell-toe Adidas I'm in your building, like paint chips off your ceiling Fake face, yo pack up, start watchin Scarface I strike your tour bus, catch you naked smokin dust Rip your papers at halftime, your rented rhymes are rust You got no wins, for crabs in your used Benz Extra mic stands for Taco Bell burns yo' friends Louisiana Hot Sauce, tops your an*s boss Gorilla Magilla, "He's in the window!" Your style is for sale, s**m drippin off your pillow [Hook] - 2X {*"back" - scratched before end*}